


The Independent Contractors

by thecrazychatlady



Series: Never the Blood [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Genre: Chuuya-Typical Swearing, Comedy, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Dazai Osamu Being An Asshole (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai-Typical Suicide References (Bungou Stray Dogs), Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, I'm bad at romance, Nakahara Chuuya Is So Done (Bungou Stray Dogs), No beta we die like Oda, dumbledore hires them, he's smarter than he is in canon too, hermione is smarter than she is in canon, i mean honestly i needed something fluffy and crack-y right now, i play fast and loose with harry potter canon, no longer human works on magic, no romance i'm sorry, snape needs a day off, so here have canon-typical homoerotic rivalry/friendship, soukoku bromance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrazychatlady/pseuds/thecrazychatlady
Summary: Albus Dumbledore isn't an idiot. He knows that putting Harry, a virtually untrained schoolchild, up against Voldemort's guerrilla fighters would sign their death warrants. So he turns to his old friend Yukichi Fukuzawa to ask for a favor and drags Severus with him to Yokohama. A week later, Chuuya Nakahara and Osamu Dazai arrive in Britain, ready to kick ass and take names. And try to commit suicide via moving staircase, but that's just Dazai. (Starts the summer before 6th year and at the conclusion of the Guild arc.)---“Well then, Severus,” Albus said, his voice cheerful. “Onwards and upwards?”Severus sneered. “Upwards, Albus? I seem to have found myself at the top of a hill."
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Severus Snape, Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley
Series: Never the Blood [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790695
Comments: 233
Kudos: 496





	1. Arrivals

#  **Chapter One: Arrivals**

"The world is large."

 _The Autobiography of Yukichi Fukuzawa_ by Yukichi Fukuzawa

“We’re going to lose the war,” the headmaster said, his voice grave. His frail, knobby fingers were laced under his chin as he stared off into the distance, looking at something Severus couldn’t see. His blackened hand, most of which was hidden by his sleeve, seemed to absorb all the light in the room. Severus’s gaze was drawn, inexorably, to it. He waited, patiently, for the older man to continue. He couldn’t possibly be giving up, not Albus. 

Albus’s gaze slid to him, the deep blue of the sky seeming to pierce through his very being. The sunlight filtering in through the window was tepid and the silence only interrupted by the clack and whir of the headmaster’s many baubles, but his eyes were so bright. “We need help.”

“From whom?” Severus shot back, his own voice biting. “The ICW will treat this as internal struggle, a mere power grab by a discontent. They have no jurisdiction in civil wars. It’s what they did before.”

Severus knew he was right, and so did the man in front of him. He let out a heavy sigh. “Yes,” he agreed. “But I did not mean the ICW.”

“Then who?” Severus demanded. “The European mainland has its own issues right now, what with the tenuous nature of France’s diplomatic relationship with Spain. MACUSA will not send aid, occupied as they are with Muggle-Magic tensions.”

“I was thinking we look further afield.”

“Spit it out, Albus.”

The headmaster let out a sigh. “From information you have given me and his own past actions, Voldemort’s forces act as guerrilla squads and infiltrators. It’s a war entirely fought in the shadows until he knows his forces can overwhelm us entirely, his targets being Hogwarts, the Ministry, and St. Mungo’s. To fight a guerilla war, we need guerilla fighters.”

“From where?” Severus asked, thinking up and discarding potential allies. 

Albus’s lips curled into a knowing, careful smile. “I heard Yokohama is very nice this time of year.”

[The scenery has changed. Severus is no longer inside Dumbledore’s office and it is no longer late afternoon. Rather, it is bright and sunny, and the sky is a brilliant blue.]

The two wizards stood on the side of a road, just outside of an airport. The wind whipped around them, ruffling their distinctly Muggle attire. Severus, having lived among them for the majority of his formative years, wore a dark collared shirt and pants. Albus, on the other hand, was wearing a _very_ flashy blue ensemble. A light blue polo shirt and dark blue pants, with a rainbow tie around his neck. Severus wished to strangle him, as they were getting rather a lot of unwanted attention from passersby. 

“Well then, Severus,” Albus said, his voice cheerful. “Onwards and upwards?”

Severus sneered. “Upwards, Albus? I seem to have found myself at the top of a _hill_.”

He watched as the headmaster glanced down, seeming to realize that they were, indeed, on top of a hill. The street sloped downwards into the city of Yokohama, Japan. “Onwards and downwards implies we’re descending into hell, not ascending to heaven,” Albus pointed out. 

Severus rolled his eyes and started walking, heedless if his mentor was coming with him or not. “You’re so boring, Severus!” Albus called.

“Existence is hell,” Severus yelled over his shoulder. “And when one is in hell, the best thing you can do is to keep walking.”

[Out of Severus’s line of sight, a young man wearing a pale brown trench coat and trailing white bandages chuckles. “A man after my own heart,” he murmurs, before turning and walking away.] 

Severus was still ahead of the bearded Headmaster. “You don’t even know where we’re going,” Albus pointed out, infuriatingly correct. “Perhaps not,” Severus said, begrudgingly, and slowed slightly to walk abreast of his companion. He eyed Albus, whose blackened hand was concealed inside a long navy blue sleeve. He looked _exceedingly_ eccentric. “And why aren’t we apparating there?”

Albus shrugged. “To enjoy the view,” he said. His tone was light, airy even, but Severus was not fooled. Behind the glint of his half-moon glasses, Albus’s eyes were darting from side to side. He was wary, and Severus noticed his wand hand twitch slightly. “Are we being watched?” Severus asked in an undertone. Albus laughed, but it was a short and forced thing. “In this city,” Albus said quietly, the movement of his lips hidden behind his beard, “we are always being watched.” He flashed Severus a brilliant smile. “It’s such a nice day!” he said brightly. 

The other man let out a noncommittal grunt. Inwardly, Severus cursed Albus’s love for keeping his cards so close to his chest. Perhaps it was how he had survived so long, as with such an incredibly annoying persona it was a miracle he hadn’t been offed yet. But, being a spy, there were few things Severus hated more than being kept out of the loop. “All in good time,” Albus murmured, and Severus didn’t stiffen or inhale sharply. He prided himself on keeping his body language under tight control. But he couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips into a wry grin. It was always “all in good time” with the headmaster. “I find,” he drawled, while putting one hand into the pocket of his coat to grasp his wand, “that it’s far too sunny for my taste.”

Albus snorted. “You, Severus, are a vampire.”

“I’m afraid it’s an incurable affliction.” 

Albus’s next laugh was delighted. “Severus! You _do_ have a sense of humor!” 

Severus slid his gaze over to look at his mentor. “On occasion,” he allowed, and Albus twinkled at him. “Onwards and upwards,” he said gaily, and Severus realized with consternation that they were walking up a slope. 

It took a half hour of walking, and another half hour of hitching a ride on public transit, before the headmaster dragged the two of them to a small park. It had many medium-sized trees creating a canopy overhead, and the light that filtered through was dappled and slightly fainter. Severus was glad of it, as during the walk over, it had been warm enough he’d felt the urge to remove his coat. But his coat was the only article of clothing he had with a large enough pocket for his wand, and so he suffered. 

Albus led them to a secluded part of the park, where there was a low stone table and two benches. He eased himself onto one of them and gestured for Severus to sit next to him. “And now we wait,” he said cheerfully, and produced a bottle of water out of seemingly nowhere. He offered it to Severus, who grasped it and took a long swig. The headmaster produced another, and took a drink as well. The two of them waited quietly for twenty minutes. Severus was getting progressively more antsy, but Albus was as placid and calm as he ever was.

“How do you do it?” he asked. 

“Mm?”

Severus gestured at him. “I put the clothes on this morning,” said Albus. “They came from my closet. Surely, Severus, you could have surmised as much?”

Severus gaped at him for a second before he saw the beginnings of Albus’s smirk. “That was not what I meant,” he said stiffly, “and you know it.”

“Enlighten me, my dear boy.”

Severus only huffed and turned away from him, staring out into the expanse of the park. There was a young woman with blonde hair in an updo taking a walk. Quite a fast one, too, Severus noticed. She probably had somewhere important to be. Another woman was walking her dog. She passed a little girl wearing a brown poncho. 

Severus was jolted out of his musings when Albus shifted beside him to stand. “Ah, Fukuzawa,” he greeted, and Severus whipped his head back around. An older man with silvery hair and dressed in a traditional Japanese yukata was striding towards them. He looked very tired, with eyebags to rival Severus’s own, but had an aura about him. This was not someone he should upset, Severus realized, his well-trained preservation instinct kicking in. He stood as well.

The man—Fukuzawa—came to a halt in front of them. He inclined his head. “Dumbledore,” he said, in a gravelly, heavily accented voice. The conversation that followed was entirely in Japanese, and unluckily for Severus, he had never had any cause to either learn the language or the appropriate translation charm. He could only stand in silence, watching the conversation and trying to understand what he could. Severus caught the few English words—names, mostly, like “Hogwarts”. Fukuzawa’s countenance was implacable, and Albus’s own was stern. 

After a few minutes of this, Severus reluctantly gave up and instead waited— _more waiting, really, Albus?_ —for them to finish. Eventually, Fukuzawa’s metallic blue eyes slid to him. “You are?” he asked. 

“Severus Snape,” he replied, inclining his head the way Fukuzawa had originally. The man nodded. “You are his subordinate,” he said. It was not a question, more of a statement. Albus’s own blue eyes were sharp. “Yes, sir,” Severus said stiffly, and was more than relieved when Fukuzawa nodded again and turned that gaze back onto Albus. It felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders when the man finally left, handing Albus a piece of paper before he went. Severus dropped back into his seat with an exhale. “Who was that man?” he asked.

“An old friend,” Albus said cryptically, and Severus resisted the urge to strangle him. “And what did you talk about?” he prodded.

“A mutual hobby of ours.”

“Which would be?” he said leadingly, far too tired and annoyed to employ any subtlety. Albus smiled at him. “Protecting those who cannot protect themselves,” he replied, and Severus went silent. “When the day comes,” he said finally, dusting himself off, “that you tell me what’s going on, I do believe we’ll both be dead and in the afterlife.”

Albus’s smile widened. “You’ll have the details you so wish for soon,” he promised. “But the day is not over yet.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were going to our hotel after this,” he said. 

“Yes,” Albus agreed, and Severus waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, Severus threw his hands up into the air and walked away. “I will leave you behind,” he said sharply over his shoulder. 

“You can’t speak Japanese,” Albus called after him, and Severus pointedly ignored him. Through a combination of luck, sheer stubbornness, and righteous fury, Severus made it to the hotel before Albus did. Outside the door was an old man, older than Fukuzawa had been, smoking a cigarette. Of all curious things, he had a monocle on one eye and held a zippo lighter in his gloved hand. The other hand took the cigarette out of his mouth, and he blew a plume of smoke into the cooling air. 

Severus ignored him and trooped inside the hotel, drawing an air of menace about himself. He promptly realized their booking had been in Albus’s name and that, indeed, he did not know how to ask the clerk about it. He resigned himself for an uncomfortable wait on one of the benches in the lobby, cursing Albus inside his head. 

It seemed to be an eternity before Albus swept into the hotel, ridiculous blue outfit and trademark grandfatherly smile and all. Severus bit his tongue to keep the acidic words— _you took forever, Albus—_ from escaping, and came up behind him to stand at his shoulder. In completely fluent Japanese, Albus conversed with the clerk and procured the room key. “We’re on the second floor,” he said, and went for the stairs. It was a few more minutes of cursed, cursed walking before Albus stopped in front of their hotel room and unlocked the door.

The inside of the hotel room was dark, so Severus reached across Albus and flicked on the light. It was a normal enough room, with two beds, a table and chair, and a plushy-looking armchair. There was a door to their left that Severus assumed was the bathroom. But none of that concerned him at the moment. His gaze fixed on the man sitting in the armchair. It was the same man from outside the hotel, Severus was sure. His hand flexed around his wand. 

Albus looked unconcerned, which was _just like Albus, he must have expected this_. Severus retained his white-knuckled grip on his wand as Albus walked further into the room, pulled the chair out from the desk, and sat in it. “You would be the mafia representative, then,” he said, and Severus’s eyes nearly bugged out. _Mafia_ representative? Albus was dealing with _organized crime_? Had he gone mad? 

“Indeed,” said the old man with the monocle. His English was faintly accented, but he spoke fluently. “My name is Hirotsu Ryuurou. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

Albus, absolutely senile man he was, stuck out his hand. “Albus Dumbledore. The man behind me is my subordinate, Severus Snape.”

Severus felt the oddest urge to give a tiny wave, and ruthlessly shoved it down. He settled for glaring at the monocled intruder. 

Ryuurou’s eyes, a startling, almost inhuman violet, met his own before sliding away. They had been dismissive, as if he weren’t a threat. Severus’s hackles rose, but he said nothing. Ryuurou shook Albus’s hand. 

“It is my understanding you’re looking for an ability user to assist you in Britain,” Ryuurou said, leaving his hands on the table. In full view, Severus realized, to make it clear that he wasn’t going to do something violent and decidedly ill-advised. But what did he mean by ability user? That couldn’t possibly be the same thing as magic user, unless the Japanese had very different terminology in their magical culture.

Albus nodded in confirmation. “I assume you were watching the park?”

Ryuurou’s mouth curved into a smile. “We have eyes all over the city,” he said vaguely, and a shiver went up Severus’s spine. This was why Albus had warned that they were being watched. And not just at the park, either, he realized. _All over the city_ , the man had said. They had probably been watched since the airport, or tailed at some point. The fact that Severus, whose danger-sense was honed to a razor’s edge, hadn’t noticed...it made him very, very nervous. He kept his mouth shut, watching the exchange, and his hand on his wand.

“Let us cut to the chase and speak frankly, shall we?” said Albus suddenly, barreling on before Ryuurou could respond. “You’re offering the mafia’s services. In exchange, you’ll want compensation.”

Ryuurou tilted his head. “Certainly, money is always a compelling incentive for the Port Mafia. However, we are looking for something else.”

Albus leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Influence then. Ties to European magical society. Our existence is news to your organization?”

Albus, Severus realized faintly, had just broken about three dozen laws relating to the Statute of Secrecy. 

“Not quite,” Ryuurou said. “We’ve heard rumors, and we have a working relationship with Japanese magical society. It is the international playing field where we are lacking any sort of advantage.”

Albus nodded sharply. “Britain is going to have a power vacuum, very soon. If all goes well, whoever fills it will be someone willing to reach out to the ability users of Japan, and Yokohama’s in particular.”

Ryuurou’s answering smile was dark and cruel. It was the sort of smile Severus had seen before, on men like Thoros Nott and Evan Rosier. It was the smile of a man accustomed to violence, and who often used it to achieve his goals. “We can draw up terms another day,” he said, standing from the armchair. “Thank you for your hospitality. We will send another representative soon.”

Albus nodded again, and watched, hawklike, as the man walked out of the room and shut it behind him. Severus looked as he slumped into his chair, aging a decade in an instant. “I miss my lemon drops,” he said mournfully. 

“Then we should have Portkeyed,” Severus said sharply. “One can’t take magical sweets onto a Muggle airplane. _Answers,_ Albus.”

The headmaster let out a gusty sigh and took two miniature suitcases out of his pocket. He laid them on the ground, one by each bed, and resized them with a flick of his wand. “This hotel,” he said wearily, “is owned by the Port Mafia. They are a sprawling, violent organization that is, nevertheless, mostly legal and untouchable by the government. As the delightful Mr. Ryuurou stated, they have eyes all over Yokohama. I was expecting to be observed, if not followed.”

Severus’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. 

Albus continued. “There is a Japanese magical society, as you know, and a magical school a good distance from the main body of the country. However, Japan is also home to ability users. These people are a close relative to us magical folk, but they are different in that they have one supernatural or superhuman ability.”

“How has nobody heard of this before?” Severus demanded. 

“It’s well-known to the Muggles,” Albus said, shrugging. “Their existence is highly contested in magical society and they are rarely spoken about. Regardless, Yokohama is a particular hotspot for ability users. My old friend, Yukichi Fukuzawa, is one of them. And if I’m not mistaken, the mafia representative was one as well.”

“What are the nature of these abilities?” Severus pressed. “Are they a threat?”

Albus took off his glasses and polished them with his sleeve. “They vary. I knew of a man who could conjure flame and manipulate it with a terrifying degree, and a woman with Legilimency-like abilities to rival my own. Fukuzawa’s own ability allows his subordinates to control their own abilities with greater dexterity. I do not know Mr. Ryuurou’s ability, though I suspect it is more combat-oriented than Fukuzawa’s. The gloves are a dead giveaway. And as for if they’re a threat...again, it varies.”

Severus sneered. “These ability users are far less versatile if they’re confined to what amounts to a single spell,” he pointed out. 

“Perhaps,” the headmaster said. “But their specialization means their ‘one spell’, as you say, can have a large amount of skill and power behind it.”

Severus shrugged then, and took a seat on one of the beds to take off his shoes. “So we are here for a mafia ability user?” he asked. “This is the aid you were referring to?”

Albus’s smile was quiet and knowing. “Fukuzawa runs a detective agency, and he owes me a favor. We’re here for one of his subordinates to help us back in Britain, and to talk to another. Fukuzawa speaks highly of his intelligence. The mafia...is an unavoidable, and yet fortuitous, side effect.”

“We’re here for two,” Severus realized. 

“Two,” Albus agreed. “One from the Port Mafia, bought with the promise of ties to the British ministry. One from Fukuzawa’s Armed Detective Agency.”

“Why not both from his agency, or both from the mafia?” 

Albus’s smile widened. “I’ve been told good things about these two,” he said, and Severus gave up the questioning. He would get no more out of his mentor tonight, though he knew there was far more to Albus’s plans than that. There remained the mystery of why they had travelled to Yokohama on a Muggle aeroplane, rather than via Portkey, for one—and why Albus was so willing to make deals with Yokohama’s criminal organization. And Severus could tell Albus had yet more secrets up his sleeve. The man always did, Severus thought, his exasperation tinged with the slightest bit of fondness. 

“We have a meeting with Fukuzawa tomorrow,” Albus said suddenly, and rummaged through his luggage. He took out a slim booklet and placed it on the nightstand. “Translation spells, my boy,” he said, beaming. 

“You could not have given me this earlier? Or, better yet, cast the spell yourself?” Severus snapped.

“Ah, but Severus. Your suffering is so amusing to watch.” Albus twinkled at him.

Severus turned away from the infuriating man. He knew that there was probably a sadistic part of Albus that giggled when Severus couldn’t understand the language, but it was more likely that he wanted to keep his conversation with Fukuzawa private. Which, he supposed, was something he could respect. Nevertheless, he took the booklet from the nightstand and began reading through it, practicing the wand movements as he did. Albus fell asleep in his clothes, the doddery old codger, and Severus sighed when he realized he had dropped off. With a sort of resigned sense of duty, Severus magicked Albus’s shoes off and levitated him under the covers. He would fall asleep an hour or so later, having read the booklet cover to cover. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to write something that wasn't all dark and depressing, so here, have my self-indulgent crossover. Featuring! A Snape who is overworked, but not as much as Ango, who doesn't actually appear in this fic so far. A Dumbledore with a few more brain cells than he had in canon and an even shadier past. Our favorite candy fiend, Edogawa Ranpo. With cameos for Higuchi (she is best girl and I will die on that hill), Tanizaki, Atsushi, Kouyou, Hirotsu, offduty!Gin, and more!


	2. Negotiations

#  **Chapter Two: Negotiations**

"The stars have already

Opened

their autumn eyes"

“Autumn Begins” by Kouyou Ozaki

[It’s morning. The sunlight streams in through the window and the half open blinds, illuminating the hotel room. Albus is in the shower, and the sound of running water cuts through the silence.]

Severus woke up stiff. The bathroom was occupied, he realized, and flicked through the translation booklet as he waited. The difficult thing about translation spells, he noted, was the somatic component. The wand movements were simple—a quick jab to the throat and a tap at his temple—but the somatic component for a particular language was typically _in_ that language, or a bastardized form. More problematic was the need for perfect pronunciation. Severus did not trust himself to pronounce the bastardized Japanese words accurately, and decided to confirm with Albus before testing them. 

Albus exited the shower a few minutes later, wearing an eye-searingly orange frock coat and a salmon-pink ensemble. “You look horrific,” Severus deadpanned. It was somehow worse than the blue, which he had not believed was possible. His outfit somehow defied all the laws of the universe to be _worse_ than a collection of blue clothing items of different hue and saturation. “It burns.”

“Don’t be like that,” Albus chided, before peering at the booklet in Severus’s hands. “ _Loqui_ is pronounced loh-key, though you knew that, that’s the standard Latin tag for a translation spell. And then _hanasa sete_ is hah-nah-sah, seh-tay.”

Severus grunted his thanks before jabbing his wand at his throat, then circling around to tap his left temple. “Loqui,” he murmured, before sketching a shape in the air in front of him, and then spoke the Japanese component. He felt the magic settle stickily over his ears and coat the inside of his mouth, as well as film over his eyes. “Did it work?” Albus asked pleasantly. The words sounded odd, off somehow, and when Severus replied, his tongue did not seem to follow what he was telling it to do. But he replied in the affirmative, because the booklet had noted that there would be a disconnect for the first few minutes as the spell settled. 

“Brilliant,” Albus said. Severus smiled slightly at his mentor and, picking out some clothes, went into the shower. Afterward, he sat again on the bed and watched as Albus flicked through the tourist booklet in the desk drawer. “I’m trying to see the address of the meeting place Fukuzawa gave me,” Albus said, in a surprising show of information-sharing. Severus nodded, and waited. It would be a few more minutes before Albus let out a triumphant “Ah hah!” and shot a grin at Severus. “It would seem Fukuzawa is meeting us in a cafe,” he said. “Which is good, because I am far too lazy to call room service.”

Despite himself, Severus laughed. 

The walk to the cafe was not long, ten minutes of strolling through the sunny morning at most. It was a pale cream building of medium size, and it radiated a welcoming atmosphere. Severus glances around, but he saw no suspicious persons. That worried him. 

They entered the cafe, and Severus suddenly realized that it was filled with cats. There were perches all along the walls and several cats were lounging in the sunlight or being petted by patrons. At one table on the far side of the cafe sat a lone woman. She was very pretty and wore a white dress, with long, flowing black hair. She was stroking a pale brown cat. 

“We’re early,” Albus noted, looking at his watch. A tabby cat jumped off a stool to greet them, fluffy tail waving in the air. It brushed itself against Severus’s trousers. “Charming place,” Severus muttered.

Albus glanced at him. “Do lighten up,” he shot back, and knelt. He tried to pet the cat, but the tabby shrank away from him and hissed. Severus regarded the cat with a measure of disdain. Ever since Minerva had shredded his office chair in a fit of pique, he had been wary of cats. But at least this one had taste. “It is just as appalled by your outfit as I am.”

Albus gave him a wounded look, which Severus ignored as he searched for a table. There was an empty corner booth, and he made straight for it, sliding into the seat. The tabby followed, meowing for his attention, which he also dutifully ignored. Albus sat beside him and reached for the tabby again, but it danced back a step away from his questing hand, and Albus frowned. 

“Hello!” said a waitress, walking over. She had dark brown hair and a wide smile. “Welcome to Miysis! Sorry about Akemi. She’s usually friendlier than this.”

“Quite alright,” Albus said. “We’ll be staying for about an hour.”

The waitress, whose nametag read Hinami, placed two menus in front of them. “That’ll be 1,680 yen, which includes a drink, and I’ll be back soon to take your order!”

She breezed off with a smile, and Severus flicked through the menu in front of him. Or, he would have, if the tabby cat—Akemi—hadn’t pointedly sat on the menu as soon as Hinami put it down. He stared at her, and she stared right back, amber eyes unamused. They locked eyes for several long seconds, and Akemi meowed.

Slowly, as if against his will, Severus blinked. 

The cat meowed again in triumph, and stretched. With a resigned sigh, Severus stroked down Akemi’s back. Albus had watched their interaction with a sharp, gleeful look in his eye, and Severus suddenly regretted every single one of his life decisions that had led him to be here—sitting in a cat cafe in Japan, petting a bratty tabby cat, next to Albus Dumbledore. “Incorrigible,” he muttered, and picked up the menu with the hand that wasn’t occupied with petting Akemi. 

He ordered his drink, a frothy, supposedly coconut flavored thing, and sipped at it as they waited for Fukuzawa. Albus also ordered two sandwiches for breakfast, one of which Severus reluctantly gnawed on. It was difficult to do this one-handed, but he managed. 

_Finally_ , Fukuzawa swept in, accompanied by a young man in a ridiculous brown outfit with a _capelet_ of all things. His eyes were mostly closed, yet he walked right up to the two of them. “I’m Edogawa Ranpo,” he declared, “the greatest detective in the world.” He opened one eye slightly, revealing a brilliant green that made Severus’s breath catch. It wasn’t Lily’s color, a few shades too light, but it startled him all the same. He was also deeply, uncomfortably aware that the man had clocked that reaction.

Ranpo turned to Albus. “What did you do to your hand?” he asked, and Albus’s bushy white eyebrows jumped up. He opened his mouth to answer, but Ranpo waved a hand at him dismissively and turned to Fukuzawa. “I thought you said you had a murder case,” he complained. 

Fukuzawa reached into a pocket and pulled out a bag of candy. He handed it to Ranpo, who took it, sat down in front of Severus, and ripped it open without another complaint. He began to munch on the sweets inside, eyes still mostly closed. “So, you’re the one contracting the detective agency,” Ranpo said between candies, directing the statement at Albus. 

“That’s correct. There are some items that I need found,” Albus said. 

_He couldn’t possibly mean—_

“One of them did that to your arm, right?” 

Albus’s eyebrows climbed even higher on his forehead. He looked at Fukuzawa, who only offered a slight, secretive smile.

“You’re correct,” Albus said finally, looking back at Ranpo. The young man tapped his chin with a finger. “How many?” he asked. 

“Six total,” Albus replied. “Maybe seven.”

Ranpo peered at Albus’s face. “You know it’s seven,” he said decidedly, “and you’re not happy about it. Which means whatever lucky number seven is, it’s important. Does it belong to you? No, that’s not it.”

Ranpo popped another candy into his mouth. “Number seven is a person,” Ranpo declared. “Someone important to you, and that worries you. Am I right?”

Albus nodded mutely, all twinkle gone from his blue eyes. Severus decided right then that he was going to interrogate the headmaster again later, because while he understood the words, there was an extra layer of meaning to them that he did not. 

Ranpo leaned over the table. “I always am. What can you tell me about them?” he asked, chewing obnoxiously. 

“They all belong to the same person, and they’re all very important to him. He was very obsessed with being great in his youth, and has resorted to violence to achieve his ambition. One was his teenage diary, which has been found. The other, a family ring. One is a snake, which is by his side at all times. The seventh you speak of…” Albus sighed. “The seventh is the boy he tried to kill as an infant.”

Ranpo tilted his head. “Tell me about him,” he said, and though it was an order, and Albus Dumbledore never took orders, he complied anyway. The story of the rise of Lord Voldemort was a terrible and tragic one, and though Severus knew it, he was still captivated by the tale his mentor wove. Ranpo continued to chew loudly on his candies and Fukuzawa watched impassively, arms crossed. When he finished, Ranpo silently took out a pair of wireframe glasses, unfolded them, and put them on. “Ability: Super Deduction!” he declared, opening his eyes fully. Severus was unprepared for the brilliance of those emerald eyes, so like Lily’s and yet not.

Was it Severus’s imagination, or did his capelet flutter slightly?

“You’re missing three,” Ranpo said. “One’s definitely at the school. Another is with one of his most trusted followers, probably in the impenetrable bank you mentioned since the diary was in one’s possession. The last…” Ranpo’s brows furrowed. “Tricky. Is the orphanage still standing?”

“It was destroyed.”

Ranpo huffed. “The place where he traumatized those two kids,” he said with finality. “Wherever that was.”

“How can you be sure?” Albus pressed. 

“I’m the world’s greatest detective! I’m never wrong. Besides, the man you’re talking about…” Ranpo’s voice became cold. “I know the type of man that is. He would have an object at points in his life he calls victories. The diary, when he killed a girl for the first time. The ring, when he killed the family that rejected him. The snake is his companion. The boy is the exception, but he wasn’t a planned item, if I’m right. And I’m always right.”

Albus nodded slowly. 

“As a kid, traumatizing those kids would’ve been a high point for him. You said he loved his school—of _course_ he’d put one there. And if he’s so set on keeping his items safe, then he’d pick your bank.” Ranpo’s lip curled. “How linear.”

In a sudden movement, Ranpo took off the glasses and put them away, throwing another handful of candy into his mouth. “Are we done here, President?” he asked, looking at Fukuzawa. 

“Well done, Ranpo,” the man said, and Ranpo beamed. Fukuzawa looked back at Albus and Severus, as if weighing his words carefully. “We will send our operative in a week’s time,” he said finally. “I would have him here to introduce him, but he is currently occupied.”

[Somewhere in a river, a man floating legs-up sneezes. He chokes on water and flails, breaking the surface. Instinctively, he takes a gulp of air, and immediately, his face falls into dejection. The bandages at his neck are sodden and so is his pale brown coat. “Atsushi!” he calls, and a boy comes barrelling onto the river bank. “Dazai!” the boy yells, curiously purple-yellow eyes blown wide, and dives into the river. A man in a green waistcoat and black long-sleeve follows behind, and facepalms violently.]

“We’re staying in Yokohama a little while longer,” Albus said mildly. “We can meet him another day.”

Fukuzawa nodded once, sharply. “Come to the Armed Detective Agency tomorrow, then,” he said, and turned. “Come, Ranpo.” Ranpo gets up from his seat and obediently trails out after Fukuzawa, giving Albus a little mock salute. 

“That’s an ability user?” Severus asks, turning to Albus. The man hums under his breath. “No, I don’t believe it was.”

“But the predictions—and the activation announcement—”

“Edogawa Ranpo is a highly talented and intelligent individual,” Albus said, cutting him off. “It is my understanding that he has solved numerous cases for the agency and that he pretends to have an ability, though really, he’s a normal human. Albeit a genius.”

Severus sat back, absentmindedly scratching Akemi’s head. “You know, while you were busy conversing with the candy fiend,” he said, “Fukuzawa was muttering to one of the cats.” 

Albus smiled at him. “When a man gets as old as Fukuzawa or I,” Albus said benevolently, “he is bound to pick up at least one unexplainable quirk.”

“You don’t understand,” Severus insisted. “Its face looked like it understood. The cat _left_ with him.”

“I didn’t see a cat,” said Albus. “Are you sure you didn’t just imagine it, Severus?”

Akemi purred, nuzzling Severus’s hand. He sighed. “Perhaps,” he allowed, and Albus smiled. “Back to the hotel, then?” he asked, and there was an odd look in his eye. Severus nodded as they paid for their food and stood from the booth. Severus kept a few steps behind Albus, scanning the cafe. Something was putting him on edge. He noticed the pretty young women on the other side of the cafe had also gotten up and was walking to the door. She stumbled, bumping into Albus. The headmaster steadied her, unperturbed. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. It should really be the young woman apologizing. 

She laughed, a delicate, beautiful sound like the chiming of bells. “I’m alright,” she said, in an equally musical voice. “I’m sorry, too. Are you hurt?” Albus smiled back at her. “Not at all,” he told her, and she smiled, bowed slightly, and continued walking out of the cafe. There was a strange look on Albus’s face as he watched her turn left and continue walking down the street.

“Who was she?” Severus hissed, coming up to stand at his shoulder.”

“I haven’t the faintest,” said Albus. The older man reached inside his pocket and drew out a slip of paper. “Whoever she is, she has very, very quick fingers.”

Severus peered at the piece of paper. Written on it in an elegant hand was an address and a time. “That’s in two hours,” he said. His mind flashed back to when she had stumbled and bumped into Albus. Where had her hands been? He couldn’t remember, and that was concerning. His occlumency granted him a near-eidetic memory. Too fast for him to see, perhaps? But that was very, very worrisome. 

“Indeed,” the headmaster said to his earlier statement, and stared out the door with a pensive gaze. 

“She’s mafia, then.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Severus rolled his dark eyes up to the ceiling. Of course, and of course Albus had somehow expected this and neglected to inform him. He was annoyed at himself too, though, for not noticing the woman. He had been distracted, had underestimated her. She could have pulled a knife on Albus, and he would have been too slow to react. He knew that Albus Dumbledore could never be killed through Muggle means, but when taken by surprise? 

And that was the difference, he supposed. Albus was almost never surprised. What an utterly terrifying man. 

Not for the first time, Severus wondered what a dark lord version of Albus would be like. A dark lord with intelligence and charisma and the power and influence to back them up...Severus suppressed a shiver. Wizarding Britain would have been doomed. He was pathetically grateful that the headmaster of Hogwarts was firmly on the side of the light. 

Albus was flipping through the tourist guidebook. “If we take buses, it should take us an hour to get from here to this address. It’s another park.”

“Are we still going back to the hotel room, then?” Severus asked, and Albus stroked his beard in thought. “Better to get there early,” he said finally. “I do not want to see what happens when the Port Mafia is kept waiting.”

“And coming early lets us scout out the terrain,” Severus murmured, and Albus’s smile was wicked sharp. “Just so,” he agreed, and tucked the guidebook back into his pocket. “Onward we go, dear boy!”

Severus trekked after him, sighing. “I am starting to wish you brought Minerva,” he said to the bright orange man. Albus looked back at him, that dangerous smile still on his face. There was no grandfatherly warmth in that smile, just a devious joy. “Minerva,” he said crisply, “would sooner scratch the face off of any mafia representative.”

“And I am any different?” Severus asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“You have far less qualms about hiring a member of a criminal agency to take down our enemies. I suspect, if Minerva knew what I was doing in Yokohama rather than believing I was on a much needed vacation, she would be very put out with me.”

“She is a woman of strong moral conviction,” Severus said.

Albus nodded. “And it is a testament to the quality of her character.” He looked at the potions master with a serious expression. “But in Britain, it is easy to divide people into good and evil. Here in Yokohama, there are far more shades of grey.”

“Are you calling your deputy headmistress, scourge of all pranksters, inflexible?” Severus asked, smirking slightly. 

“Not in so many words,” Albus said, turning away to glance at a street sign. “But I would much rather beg her forgiveness for letting a mafioso into the school than ask for permission.”

“I am still wary of this plan,” Severus said. “While I wouldn’t mind a few of Gryffindor house being put into their place—” Albus scoffed, clearly disbelieving, but Severus pressed on, “what guarantee do you have that the students won’t be harmed?”

Albus let out a long, gusty sigh. “They want influence in Britain,” he said, adjusting his half-moon glasses. “The last thing they would do is hurt a child.”

“Your only guarantee of good behavior,” Severus said incredulously, “is _bad press_?”

“Never underestimate the greed of a criminal organization,” Albus said cheerfully, before sliding his gaze to Severus. In that gaze were the weight of many failures and responsibility, _overwhelming_ responsibility. “They would not dare hurt the children,” Albus said. “I would not let them.”

In that moment, pinned to the spot by the heaviness of his stare, Severus believed him. “Hmm,” was all he said as he sped up. “We will be late if you dawdle so, Albus.”

An hour of hopping various buses later and walking in the steadily warmer afternoon saw the two man arrive at a secluded park. It was larger than the one they had originally met Fukuzawa in and the trees were taller, more close together. There was a gazebo in the center surrounded by camellias, some of which had already dropped their flower heads.

Albus led him to the gazebo and sat at the table in the center of the gazebo. “Do keep a look out, Severus,” he said, and took out his tourist information book. Severus watched, incredulous, as he affected an air of absolute disinterest. 

With a long-suffering sigh, he looked around the park. He did not see the young woman from earlier. Really, he didn’t see anyone. The park was deserted. But something didn’t feel right, so he reached into his pocket to grasp his wand. “Homenum Revelio,” he muttered. The spell would alert anyone in the area with an odd swooping sensation, but he was willing to risk it. A few moments later, he had an awareness of all the people in the park. And there were _multiple_ , all somehow concealed. The closest was in the trees a few meters away, and another was behind a stone structure. The third person he could sense...the awareness was slightly fuzzy, almost, and it was the strangest feeling. It was similar to the feeling of someone underneath a poorly-cast Disillusionment or invisibility cloak. That person was further than the one in the tree but closer than the one behind the stone structure. 

“Three,” Albus said quietly, using the pages of the guidebook to cover his mouth and guard against potential lipreaders. 

Severus let out a hum of agreement. “They’re not threats,” said the headmaster. “And if my guess is correct, we only have to worry about one of them if it comes to a fight.”

Severus remained silent, waiting for him to elaborate. Albus flipped a page in his book and pushed his half-moon spectacles further up his crooked nose. “Fukuzawa’s subordinate has an illusion ability. I suspect he was following us as backup.”

“He knows about the mafia?” Severus asked, scrubbing a hand over his face to disguise his mouth. Albus nodded almost imperceptibly. “He warned me about their involvement,” he said, turning another page, and fell back into thoughtful silence. Severus cursed him inside his head and settled in for a very uncomfortable wait. 

[A boy in a sweater leans against a tree, the feeling of his cloaking ability humming over his skin. He eyes the two men in the gazebo, and he wonders why they’re so important that the President ordered him to tail them. He doesn’t notice the two members of the mafia concealed in the trees and behind the stone statue, but he trusts that his ability won’t fail him even when a strange swooping sensation prickles his senses.]

[A blonde woman stands behind a stone structure, relaying the situation to her superiors softly. “No movement from the targets,” she says, her voice low. She waits for a response before nodding sharply. “Understood.” She fingers the pistol holstered at her belt and silently dares the two men to try anything. The sensation of ghostlike movement almost makes her pull out the gun, but she takes a breath.]

[A man with a fedora tilted over his eyes sits on the highest branches of a tree, the orange glow of his ability holding him on the thin pieces of wood. He ignores the odd sensation, figuring it’s just the wind. From his vantage point, he can see the blonde woman behind the stone statue and the two foreigners sitting silently in the gazebo. His legs are starting to cramp up, so he lets out a sigh of relief when he spots the flaming red of ane-san’s hair nearing the park.]

Severus’s eyes spotted an elegant woman in a pink and white kimono walking sedately over to the gazebo. Her hair was a bright red and she carried a parasol in one delicate hand. Her smile was fixed, as charming and quiet as it was, and Severus was immediately wary of her. 

Albus stood as the women entered the gazebo in a cloud of flowery perfume. Severus followed, and the greetings that followed put him distinctly on edge. “I am Kouyou Ozaki,” she said, “an executive.”

An executive? Assuming this meant a high position of power in the Port Mafia, she must be skilled. There was violence lurking under the prettiness of the makeup and the kimono, and her eyes were flat and sharklike. This woman, though far less physically imposing than the old man from the hotel had been, scared him far more. He knew he was skilled, himself. But he did not know what the woman in front of him was capable of. 

“Albus Dumbledore,” said the headmaster. “This is Severus Snape, my subordinate.”

The woman nodded, gracing them both with a demure smile. “We are prepared to send one of our ability users to Britain. Hirotsu tells me you know what we want in exchange.”

“A favor for influence,” Albus said, and the woman’s smile widens slightly. Albus continues, however, and there was steel in his voice. “The children may not be harmed,” he said. “Our base of operations is a school, after all, and I am its headmaster.”

Ozaki nodded. “Of course,” she said dismissively. “That would be a breach of contract, yes?” And Albus nodded. The very tense negotiation that followed, with both Ozaki and the headmaster arguing over the terms of their contract, was dry and filled with hidden barbs. Severus let his mind wander away from the conversation to nonverbally cast another Homenum Revelio. There was still a person leaning against a tree and one _in_ a tree, but the person behind the stone structure had left his range of awareness. With a start, he realized that one of the presences was _moving_.

“Albus,” he said sharply, and drew his wand, though he didn’t raise it. The headmaster seemed utterly unconcerned, as usual, and Ozaki’s pretty face didn’t so much as flinch. “That would be who the Port Mafia is sending,” she said calmly, and turned her head. 

Severus watched warily as a young man walked up to the gazebo. He was short, and he wore a black fedora and a long black coat. His windblown orange hair was tied into a loose ponytail. Like Ryuurou, he wore gloves. While Ozaki’s malice was hidden beneath a thin veneer of beauty and respectability, this man all but exuded violence. 

The man stopped at the entrance of the gazebo, looking at both Albus and him. “I’m Chuuya Nakahara, also an executive.”

The introductions were made once more, and in the temporary distraction of the two mafia executives, Severus slipped his wand back back into his pocket. But he gripped it all the same, ready to take it out again if either of them started a fight. This, thought Severus, was exactly the reason he remained Albus’s right hand man. Perhaps Albus had been the one to ask him to risk his life once more as Voldmort’s spy, and perhaps it was him and his Order that kept dragging him into conflict. But Severus knew there was always a way out, and that was what ultimately separated Albus from Tom Riddle. If he said no, if he told the headmaster he was packing his bags and moving to France, Albus wouldn’t stop him. He’d smile his sad grandfatherly smile and bid Severus farewell. 

And some days, the urge to leave—to abandon this country and seek his fortunes elsewhere—tugged at him. But he knew life would never be as interesting holed up in France as it was here, at Albus Dumbledore’s side, talking to people he hated and putting his life on the line nearly every day. He hated teaching, but if that was the price to pay for the adrenaline rush, well. Sacrifices must be made.

The one with hair orange enough to match Albus’s hideous clothing was speaking again, Severus realized. “My ability has to do with gravity manipulation,” he was saying, and as if to prove it, he walked up a wall. Severus could only stare blankly. The hum of his ability was an odd, uncomfortable sound, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, and a dim glow surrounded Nakahara on the wall. “I won’t bore you with the specifics, but I’m very, very good in a fight.” His eyes, bright blue against the orange haze, were different than the others. The other mafia members, Severus had noticed, had dark, flat eyes. They betrayed the cruelty behind them, the utter lack of regard for humans other than themselves, and they were eyes that matched those of the Death Eaters Severus knew well. Ryuurou had those eyes. Ozaki had those eyes. But Nakahara’s had purpose and steel in them, and Severus wondered if this was a man he might respect. 

Severus also noted how deliberately vague Nakahara was about his ability. Gravity manipulation could extend to any number of things, but he hadn’t elaborated. It made sense, he supposed. If your entire fighting style revolved around an ability, the knowledge of what it did must be a sensitive thing. That, too, was something Severus could respect. 

Albus was nodding and finishing the nitty-gritty details of the contract with Ozaki and Nakahara as Severus deliberated. “When you arrive in London, go to King’s Cross Station,” Albus was saying. “Either myself or Severus will be waiting to escort you to the school, and we will explain the specifics of the situation then.”

Nakahara was nodding, his expression neutral. “Oi, ane-san,” he said, turning to Ozaki. Not for the first time, Severus was briefly annoyed by the translation spell’s shortcomings. While it could give him direct translations, it didn’t give him the cultural context and connotations behind certain phrases. Ane-san was one of them, and though it was some form of “big sis”, Severus wasn’t entirely sure why Nakahara would use it to refer to Ozaki. 

The red haired woman slid her gaze to him. “The Boss is just sending me, right?” he asked, and Ozaki’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “The Boss is only sending you,” she agreed. Nakahara frowned at her, as if realizing suddenly that she wasn’t telling him everything. He looked then at Albus. “It’s a deal then, old man?” he said. Albus grinned at him, evidently surprised and delighted. “It’s a deal,” said the headmaster. 

Nakahara’s phone went off then, an annoying, persistent chime. He flipped it open, having received a text. He exchanged a look with Ozaki before stepping outside the gazebo. “I’ll let you finish things up here, ane-san,” he called over his shoulder. “This is urgent.”

“Have fun, Chuuya,” Ozaki said, lifting an elegant hand in a wave. The man nodded to her, and started walking away. 

Severus watched him go as Ozaki and Albus finished their negotiations. Ozai was promising to send a contract to their hotel room before they left with all the final details, and all Albus would need to do was sign. But he was only listening with half an ear. A black sedan with tinted windows pulled up to the side of the road and Nakahara opened the door, getting in. Severus could only catch a glimpse of black fabric as the driver before the door closed and the car drove away. 

By then, Ozaki was taking her leave. She drew her kimono around her as she stood and grasped her parasol, swinging it up to rest it on her shoulder. “I look forward to our business relationship, Albus Dumbledore,” she said. Albus inclined his head. “Have a safe walk, Ms. Ozaki.”

She turned away then, walking down the steps of the gazebo and turning, rather than going straight as Nakahara had. She soon disappeared out of Severus’s field of view. 

“She’s terrifying,” Severus said quietly, and Albus laughed. “A formidable woman, indeed,” he replied. “But what did you think of Nakahara?”

“He’s not like the other two,” said Severus, and Albus nodded. “Did you notice his relationship to Ozaki?” he asked.

“Siblings, perhaps?” 

“Not quite. Adopted, perhaps. Ozaki is his senior and a mentor figure to him, I suspect. She was very careful not to look at him during negotiations. He is one of her few weaknesses, and she is painfully aware that weaknesses can be used against her.”

“How Machiavellian,” Severus drawled, slightly annoyed that Albus had noticed something he hadn’t about the two. 

“Mafioso, as a career choice, is not an easy one,” Albus said carefully, and Severus wondered what else his twinkling blue eyes had seen in that one conversation. How thoroughly had he dissected Kouyou Ozaki, and how much of it had he used to his advantage during their conversation? He should have paid more attention to it, rather than ruminating on pointless things. It was this sort of inattention that would kill him in the end. That was something _he_ was painfully aware of. 

“Back to the hotel, finally, then?” asked Severus. Albus nodded and let out a tired sigh. “Enough verbal sparring for today,” he said, and rose from the table. “It’s an hour of hopping buses back to the hotel, anyway.” 

Severus let out a theatrical groan. True to form, Albus’s mouth quirked up into a half-smile. Mission accomplished. 

[It’s the next day. Albus and Severus stand in front of an imposing red-brick building and several birds fly overhead. They know the Armed Detective Agency is on the fourth floor, and Severus is mentally preparing himself for the quirks Albus had mentioned the nights previously. Albus, on the other hand, is more excited than he lets show. He had donned the glittery jacket just to annoy Severus, with his dour fashion sense.]

“This is the right address?” Severus asked, glancing at the headmaster. His absolutely blinding outfit hurt to look at, so he quickly glanced away. 

Albus nodded and opened the door. The first floor was a cafe, which Albus breezed straight through to the staircase. Several minutes of huffing and puffing as they dragged their sorry carcasses up to the fourth floor later, they were faced with an unassuming door. The nameplate read “The Armed Detective Agency”.

Severus took a deep breath. 

“Onward,” said Albus cheerfully, and opened the door. They were greeted by the site of a large office with several desks, most of them unoccupied but overflowing with paperwork. The young man Fukuzawa had brought to their second meeting was lounging at one of them, drinking from one of those curious blue bottles with a marble inside. There was also a boy with blonde hair in...ratty overalls and a straw hat. He was gazing out the window. 

A sweet-looking young woman with long brown hair and red glasses smiled at them. “Hello! How can I help you?” she asked. 

“We have a meeting with the President,” Albus said cheerfully. The woman perked up. “You must be Mr. Dumbledore,” she said, peering at him. “The President made a note to look out for...oddly-dressed individuals.” 

Severus coughed, choking on a laugh. 

“That’s me,” said the headmaster, smiling. 

“He’ll be right with you,” she said, disappearing into a nearby room. Albus and Severus stood at the side of the office, Severus awkwardly fiddling with his buttons. He would blame his improperly cuffed sleeve when the boy in overalls surprised him. “Hi!” he chirped. “I’m Kenji Miyazawa, but you can call me Kenji!” His smile was wide and guileless, and Severus found himself taking a step back. “My name is Severus Snape,” he said, his own voice solemn. 

“The President says you’re foreigners,” Kenji said. “Where are you from?”

“England,” Severus said stiffly. 

Kenji’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “That’s so far,” he said, awed. “What’s it like?” Severus did his best to field the boy’s questions, which asked after the food, the customs, and the train system, of all things. He was saved by the appearance of Fukuzawa, who came out of his office. The air in the office shifted, everyone suddenly coming more alert. Kenji even quieted, stepping out of the way as Fukuzawa came to a halt in front of them. “Mr. Dumbledore,” he rumbled. “My subordinate should be here soon. Feel free to take a seat.”

Albus nodded, turning his twinkling gaze to Fukuzawa. He sat in one of the chairs by the wall, and Severus followed, eyes darting around the room. He felt immensely uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by and there was still no appearance of this missing subordinate. 

The door flew open, then, and two men hauled another in. One of the two standing had pale white hair and badly cut bangs, while the other wore a waistcoat in a truly appalling shade of green. He was berating the body clinging to his shoulder, who looked distinctly disheveled. “Haven’t you learned your lesson?” he roared, jerking him into the office as the pale-haired man shut the door. 

“But Kunikida,” whined the mass of bandages and trench coat hanging off of him. “I read a new article that said if I change my position slightly, I wouldn’t get stuck like last time.”

“And yet you still needed me to bail you out of the oil drum! You slacker!”

As if noticing suddenly that everyone’s eyes were on him and that there were two strangers in the room, the yelling man straightened up and let his charge fall to the ground, only to be caught by the third. “My apologies, President,” he said, bowing. “Dazai got stuck in an oil drum again.”

Fukuzawa’s eye twitched. “Dazai,” he said to the lump of white bandages. 

“President!” said the man, sitting up. He turned his head and locked eyes with Severus. “These are the clients?”

“You would know that if you had been here _working_ instead of wasting my time,” the aforementioned Kunikida snapped. “I’m two minutes and 33 seconds late for a meeting with the police.” He walked away, grumbling under his breath, and took out a notebook. He began writing in it with a fountain pen he picked up from one of the desks. 

“Don’t frown so much, Kunikida!” Dazai called cheerfully. “You’ll get wrinkles!” 

The pen in Kunikida’s hand snapped. 

Severus glanced at Albus. He tried to convey the pleading desperation that had crept up on him while watching this exchange. That couldn’t possibly be the ability user they were contracting, there was absolutely no way.

Albus twinkled at him, and Severus had to take a deep, steadying breath. It was the Lockhart incident all over again, he thought, quietly mourning his rapidly declining composure. 

The bandaged man got to his feet and dusted himself off. “Osamu Dazai,” he said, smiling. “The overly uptight one over there is Kunikida—” he gestured widely. “I’m Atsushi Nakajima,” said the as-of-then unnamed man. “Boy! Get over here!” said Kunikida. “You have a case!” 

Nakajima gave a sheepish wave before trailing after Kunikida to one of the desks and peering at the topmost papers, and Severus returned his attention to Dazai. “I look forward to working with you,” he said stiffly, because _someone_ had to observe the barest modicum of professionalism right now and it certainly wasn’t going to be Albus. 

From there, the headmaster took over the conversation. It was mostly what he’d told Kouyou Ozaki, so Severus let his mind wander. He watched as Kunikida dumped a stack of papers into Nakajima’s arms and hustled him out the door, saying something about how “Tanizaki is waiting for you, you’re already a minute and eleven seconds late, now _hurry up_!” 

Severus wondered faintly who Tanizaki was, and if Kunikida needed a calming potion. His blood pressure must be abysmal. 

The terrifyingly perky blonde child was shuffling through papers of his own and Ranpo was...well. Ranpo was still playing with his marble-bottle. He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a bag of chips. He pulled it open loudly and began shoving them in his mouth, eyes as squinted shut as ever. What an odd man. 

Severus was aware that in this regard, he was hardly one to talk. 

It seemed the meeting was wrapping up, he noticed. “So, it is agreed?” Albus was asking. Dazai nodded. “Kings Cross Station in London, one week,” he said. Albus smiled at him, nodding back. He stood as if to leave, and after the formalities were concluded, he followed Albus out the door. The last thing he heard was an aggrieved “Must you, Dazai?” from the President and Kenji’s voice saying “City folk sure are strange!”

“Did you tell him about the mafia ability-user?” Severus asked in an undertone, knowing the answer and still asking, because a man could _hope_. 

“It’s my understanding,” said Albus, “that the two of them have a _history_. That man, Dazai...there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“He’s a buffoon,” Severus said dismissively, “and you’re avoiding the question.”

The headmaster fixed him with that startling gaze of his. “I did not tell him,” Albus replied, and there was a peculiar expression on his face. “He already knew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post this on Monday, but I was too excited...anyway. Severus needs a day off. Also! She-Who-I-Bounce-Ideas-Off-Of/My Bungou Crack Dealer wished to be mentioned. She is not a beta, because I am fairly sure she hates proofreading more than I do--however, she is very, very good at brainstorming and yelling at me when my ideas are stupid. Thank you, Midnight, for making sure this fic isn't as much of a trainwreck as it should be.


	3. Introductions

#  **Chapter Three: Introductions**

“O acquaintances, grantors of dark disgrace,

do not wake me again!

I will endure my solitude,

arms seeming already useless.”

“Sheep Song” by Chuuya Nakahara

[Unlike the sunny skies of Yokohama, London is grey and gloomy this afternoon. Two young men make their way towards King’s Cross Station, one with considerably more difficulty, as the only western language he knows is French. It has been a week since Albus and Severus came to Yokohama to enlist the help of the most infamous duo in the city: Double Black.]

The station was full of people, all of them, apparently, ability-less. Chuuya had been to Europe, but the Boss had never sent him to Britain. Most of his travels were limited to the French-speaking countries and the mafia branches there, liasoning with their weapons dealers and smuggling operations. Britain was usually reserved for Ace, who was actually fluent in English. Chuuya sincerely hoped that the magic users knew some way to translate, or this was going to be even less fun than he’d thought. Not for the first time, he wished the mission had been assigned to someone else. But he knew it was important enough that the Boss needed an executive, and he was the only one other than ane-san with the time and the skill for this kind of operation. 

It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be annoyed about it. He’d be going to a school, of all things, probably full of spoiled magic kids who’d never seen any violence in their lives. And anyway, Chuuya didn’t know how to deal with _teenagers_. The small ones, maybe. But anything over twelve was a menace and he stood by that. 

“If I don’t get to fight anything, I’m going to _leave_ ,” he muttered, though he didn’t mean it. This operation could guarantee the Port Mafia ties to international magical communities and that was _significant_. He remembered the meeting with the Boss when he had been briefed. 

[In the Boss’s lavish office with its large bay windows overlooking the city— _his_ city—Chuuya stands to the Boss’s left. The man is uncharacteristically quiet today, and Elise isn’t with him. That isn’t _that_ strange, but the Boss spends much of his free time with Elise. For her to be absent, he must be serious. Indeed, Mori has the face of a scheming man.]

“Chuuya,” the Boss said finally. He was looking out of the windows into the distance, inscrutable eyes fixed on something Chuuya couldn’t see.

“Yes, Boss.”

“Do you know what Kouyou’s secondary missions are?”

Chuuya tilted his head, considering. Despise ane-san’s combat ability, a lot of her missions had to do with information gathering and domestic relations. She had not told him of any secondary objectives, though, this was Yokohama, where information won battles and bought more coin than violence ever would. “No,” he admitted. 

“She’s a liaison between the Port Mafia and the Japanese magical community.”

“You mean ability users?” Chuuya asked. 

“No. Magical community.” From there, the Boss divulged more information on the Japanese magicals than he ever had about anything else, with the exception of Arthur Rimbaud when he became an executive. The existence of a few magicals made enough sense, Chuuya supposed. It was similar to abilities. But an entire magical _society_ , one which spanned the globe, was shocking. Even more surprising was that nobody else in the world knew they existed, outside of a select few. 

“Why tell me this?” Chuuya asked then, though part of him already knew. 

“Britain’s magical community is on the verge of a civil war,” the Boss said, dodging the question, before walking to his desk and sitting down. He laced his fingers under his chin and regarded Chuuya with that knowing stare of his. “Don’t question the Boss’s motives” was a popular saying in the Port Mafia for a reason. The only person whose mind worked like the Boss’s was the traitor bandage-wasting machine.

“What does that have to do with us?”

“Intelligence reports suggest the situation is worsening. If all goes as planned, the leader of one of the factions will be traveling to Yokohama soon to ask the Armed Detective Agency for assistance.” The Boss smiled, and it was a shark’s smile—cold and full of teeth. “We will be present with a counter-offer.” 

Chuuya nodded. “Understood,” he said, and the Boss’s smile widened. After leaving the office, he went to his small apartment and unlocked the door. His apartment was sparse, just the way he liked it—he hadn’t had much as a kid and he didn’t need much now. He hung up his coat in the closet and took off his hat. As he always did, he ran his finger over the signature on the inside. Rimbaud, it read. 

He put the hat on his small dining table and collapsed on his couch, looking out the window much the same way the Boss had. The sun was setting and it bathed the city in oranges and reds, which, in Chuuya’s opinion, were the best colors. “What are you doing,” he murmured, not knowing if the question was for himself, the Boss, or someone else entirely. 

_Damn_ . _It’s one of those days_.

With a long sigh, he picked himself off the couch and meandered to his kitchen, opening a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of wine. It was one of the cheap supermarket ones and would probably taste like shit, but Chuuya didn’t mind very much. He needed a drink and he wasn’t about to break into his expensive bottles just because he was having an off day. 

He took a wine glass from another cabinet and popped off the seal, pouring himself half a glass of the red liquid. It looked like blood. 

Watery blood, anyway. 

He went back to the couch, carrying the bottle and glass with him, and sat down. He took a sip, still staring out at the setting sun. He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about there being a whole different society of magical people, living right under everyone’s noses. At least people _knew_ about ability users. What were they like, anyway? 

He took another sip of the wine. He had been right—it did taste like shit, but wine was wine and Chuuya would drink it till the day he died. He had a feeling that if he went to Britain ( _when_ he went to Britain, because the Boss always got his way) he’d miss these nights, sitting curled up on his couch and drinking wine like the hedonist he absolutely was. And didn’t Britain have a society of ability users like the Port Mafia? He’d heard whispers about them while in France. The Order of the Clock Tower, led by Agatha Christie. What her ability did, he didn’t know. 

But he knew underground societies weren’t something you messed with for fun.

[Chuuya is waiting by the ninth platform, leaning against the wall. He is wearing his usual outfit, aggressively fancy hat and all, and he checks his watch. He was told someone would come to fetch him around ten in the morning, and it is currently a quarter till. There is another man in the station angling for the ninth platform. He sees Chuuya before Chuuya sees him, and the quick flash of a grin on his face is all teeth. His expression droops as he nears the platform, perfectly dejected. And perfectly staged.]

“What are _you_ doing here?” a familiar voice said, and the sound of it made Chuuya’s hackles rise. It was the voice he heard occasionally in his nightmares and a voice he heard far too often lately. So soon after they had teamed up for the fight against that creepy body-horror duo from the Guild, too. The universe hated him. Or maybe the Boss did.

Oh, God, why him?

Chuuya turned slowly, incredulously, indignation creeping up his back until he stood ramrod straight. “Bastard,” he said, both eyebrows raised. “I’m here on a job, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Dazai, in all his bandage-wasting glory, sniffed. “So am I. And _I_ was supposed to wait at this platform, so you should probably move.”

“Yeah? So was I!” Chuuya snarled, forcing his ability down. For the Tainted Sorrow was rising in tandem with his temper, and he knew it would be a spectacularly bad idea to activate it _now_. “What was that?” Dazai asked, exaggeratedly looking around the station. “I can’t hear you. You’re too short for your voice to reach my ears.”

_This asshole—_

Chuuya sprang forward and grabbed the front of Dazai’s stupid looking coat. “You—”

He was cut off by the sound of someone else’s voice, speaking English. It was low and drawling, oozing the sort of disdain people like ane-san reserved for people who tried mugging her on the street. He’d been on the cleanup crew, once. The bloodstains hadn’t come out of his shirtsleeves, but that was before he’d had enough experience with removing them. He turned to see the man who had accompanied Dumbledore (what a weird name) walking towards them, wearing a dark black coat nearly as fancy as Chuuya’s own. He had absolutely no idea what he was saying other than the repeated motions to let the asshole go. 

“Oi, slug,” Dazai said. “He says to let me go.”

Chuuya did let him go, but in surprise rather than because he really wanted to. “You speak English?” he demanded. 

Dazai sniffed again, as haughty as one of those ridiculous princesses who solicited the mafia every so often. “Of course I do. I would never learn a language as useless as _French_.” 

Chuuya’s face screwed up. “You’re a dick,” he shot back, and Dazai only smiled. That infuriating, smug smile that he’d seen so many times. He wanted to punch it off of his face. 

Dazai was now talking to the British man, who rolled his eyes skyward. He made a gesture as if to follow him and Chuuya, grumbling all the while, trailed after him as he led them to the spot between platforms nine and ten. He made a beckoning gesture before walking into the wall. 

Wait, what?

“Didn’t you hear him, Chuuya?” Dazai asked. “He said to follow him.”

“Into a wall?” Chuuya asked, incredulous. Dazai shrugged. “Ladies first,” he said, smirking in that incredibly annoying way that never failed to piss Chuuya off. He did his best to ignore him and poked at the wall. It bent slightly, like if you poked a sheet of fabric, before part of his finger disappeared entirely. What a trip. 

Part of the mission, he reminded himself, took a deep breath, and stepped through. 

The other side was...a platform, with a sign with the number 9 ¾. A large red engine sat on the tracks and the man from before was standing near it, tapping his foot impatiently. Chuuya looked back, waiting for Dazai to step through, but nobody came. “Oi, Batman,” he said.

The other man looked at him, utterly uncomprehending, before letting out a long sigh. He took out some long stick from his pocket and muttered something, tapping his face as he did so. “What,” he said bitingly, and this time Chuuya understood him. Translation spells existed? Neat. 

“Shitty Dazai is stuck on the other side,” Chuuya said, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“Why can’t he step through?” asked the man, brows drawing together. 

“It’s his ability. It nullifies other abilities and, apparently, magic too,” he said carelessly, and the man tilted his face skyward. He said something in English Chuuya didn’t understand, but he caught the word “Dumbledore” and a word that was probably a curse from how vehemently he said it. The man turned to him then. “He can’t turn it off?” he asked. 

“Nope.”

The man’s grip on his wand was enough to whiten his knuckles, Chuuya noticed, and figured this guy really didn’t like being inconvenienced. “We were going to Apparate,” said the man, “but I doubt that’s possible if he can’t touch magic. Which means there’s been a change of plans, and I’m going to beat Albus over the head.” He gave Chuuya the side eye. “Did he tell you about Dazai?”

“No,” Chuuya said curtly. 

The man nodded. God, what was his name again? Snake? Chuuya resolved not to mention him by name until he figured it out.

“You can help me beat his face in,” the man offered, and Chuuya let out a startled laugh. “Why the hell not,” he said, feeling oddly floaty and disconnected. He was standing in a magic train station, accompanied by a man who could magically speak Japanese, about to team up with the bastard for the foreseeable future.

Fighting a magic terrorist.

 _Say what you will about the Port Mafia, but at least it’s never boring_ , he thought, trudging after the batlike man as he passed back through the barrier. They were greeted by the sight of Dazai lying on the ground, a bump rapidly forming on his forehead. “It wouldn’t let me through,” he said dejectedly, before rising to a sitting position. He rubbed at his skull. “It huuuuuurts,” he moaned. 

“Get up, you’re embarrassing,” Chuuya growled. He fisted a hand in the back of Dazai’s coat, ready to haul him to his feet or drag him, whichever. “Where to?” he asked the man whose name he still couldn’t remember. 

“We’ll take a train,” he said, with a long suffering sigh.

They did, indeed, take the train, and it was a very uncomfortable ride with the British man staring out the window with a determinedly neutral expression and Dazai deciding to take a nap on Chuuya’s shoulder. Every time the bastard slumped down, Chuuya shoved him off. But because even a sleeping Dazai was an annoying Dazai, he would inevitably find his way onto Chuuya’s shoulder again. Eventually, Chuuya gave up and sat, absolutely frozen, and plotted his revenge. If Dazai drooled on his coat, he was going to punch him so hard he didn’t wake up for a week, permanent brain damage be damned. 

Dazai, luckily for him, didn’t drool on his coat. He woke up a few minutes before the train slid into the right station, sitting up so quickly he knocked Chuuya’s hat to the side. “Damn it,” Chuuya said, adjusting his hat. “Get your fat head off of my shoulder.”

“I did,” Dazai pointed out, and Chuuya ignored him. 

It was a long hour of walking and hitching bus rides until they finally came to where the school was. The unnamed man had been describing a brief history of the castle, which Chuuya was half-listening to and Dazai was pretending not to listen to. “Hey, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya said, having heard something in the man’s drawled lecture. “You can’t turn it off?”

“Turn what off?”

“Your ability.”

“No, and you know that,” said Dazai, affecting a hurt face. “Are you getting old already, Chuuya? Are you starting to forget things?”

“I’m only a few months older than you, dumbass! And I was wondering because he just said there are magical domes or whatever around the castle. How are you supposed to get _in_?”

Dazai and the other man stopped walking, and the latter’s face got a very, very tired expression, like the face Doc Glasses made all the time. Chuuya was pretty sure that Ango Sakaguchi didn’t get a single full night of sleep any day of the week. “I will speak to the headmaster about temporarily lowering the wards,” he said tightly, and he could’ve sworn Dazai’s eyes sparkled. God, that guy always did get a kick out of inconveniencing others. 

After what seemed like the longest walk in the history of long walks, they came to the foot of a hill. At the top of it was a massive castle, with towers and turrets and everything. “Jeez,” said Chuuya, unable to come up with anything more intelligent to say. 

The man who Chuuya had dubbed Batman in his head turned to them then. “I will go up to the castle and ask the headmaster to lower the wards. There is a very good chance that you may break them entirely if you touch them, and because that would be _extremely_ inadvisable, I suggest waiting here quietly until I get back.”

“I can do quiet,” said Chuuya, affronted. 

The man sneered and walked off. Chuuya plopped onto the grass at the side of the road and tipped his head up to look at the muddy sky. “I miss Yokohama already,” he said, forgetting for a moment that Dazai was a traitorous bastard. But in an odd show of actual humanity, Chuuya heard a sigh. “Yeah, slug. Me too.”

Once the wards had been lowered and they’d made the trek up to the castle itself—which, to Chuuya’s great annoyance, was even more awesome-looking up close—Batman turned to them again with a solemn expression on his face. “You’re the first non-magicals we’ve let inside in centuries,” he said, obviously gearing up for a long and dusty speech on how they needed to respect the contents of the castle and all that jazz. Chuuya was almost relieved when Dazai brushed past him, pushed the great oak doors open with a hand, and breezed inside. “Chuuya!” he shouted. “It’s absolutely _massive_!”

“It’s a castle, halfwit, of course it is,” Chuuya snapped, following him in and completely ignoring Batman’s derisive sneer. 

Chuuya learned several things over the first couple days they spent at Hogwarts. The first was that Dazai could not touch anything in the castle with his bare hands, bare face, or bare feet. Magic was woven into the foundations of the place, what with the moving staircases and talking portraits (that had certainly been a shock) and general “ambiance”. So Dazai had been given black gloves, similar enough to Chuuya’s that he was offended on principle. 

He also complained _incessantly_. “It chafes,” he whined, tugging at the black fabric. “Chuuya, how do you live like this?” 

“You get used to it. Besides, you wear bandages all the time. How aren’t you used to chafing by now?!”

“But I don’t wear them on my hands!” 

“Stop being such a child,” Chuuya snapped in desperation, and Dazai’s eyes glinted with that feral light he remembered from when Dazai was the youngest executive in mafia history. He’d dragged Chuuya into an abandoned classroom then, the unfamiliar feeling of Dazai’s hand on his wrist sending an uncomfortable shiver up his spine. Chuuya wasn’t the biggest fan of being touched. 

Dazai kicked the door closed behind them and leaned against it. “I suspect,” he said quietly, “It would be advantageous to the both of us if we were allies, here.” His face had gone cold, as if a switch had been flipped inside of his head.

Chuuya looked at him incredulously. “What the _hell_ ,” he said. 

Dazai looked at him, dark eyes flat. “We are in a foreign country, hired by people with unknown abilities, in a magical castle. Are you not the _slightest_ bit worried?” 

Well, when he put it that way. 

“The Boss has his reasons for assigning me here,” Chuuya said stiffly. Dazai let out a derisive huff. “There is no way he didn’t know the President was sending me. And yet he didn’t tell you.”

“No,” Chuuya admitted. He had been wondering that himself. Why hadn’t the Boss told him? He understood that he didn’t need to know everything about this mission, and he preferred it that way, but Dazai’s involvement was rather significant. And yet the Boss hadn’t mentioned it at all. 

Dazai tilted his head, regarding him silently. It always freaked Chuuya out when he did that. It felt like Dazai was the predator and Chuuya was the prey, and all Dazai was doing was considering how he would chase him down. He resisted the urge to throw a punch, knowing that he would probably just dodge it anyway and make some crack about how it was useless to attack him. How annoying. 

“It stinks of a set up,” he said bluntly, standing perfectly still. His gaze swallowed up all the meager light in the room, drawing Chuuya in. He’d been in a lot of terrifying places, but he figured that the scariest place in the world to be was inside Dazai’s head.

Chuuya sighed. “You aren’t wrong,” he muttered. 

“As much as it pains me to say this, we’re better off putting up a united front,” said Dazai. He remained leaning against the door. There was something incredibly off-putting about the stillness, about the expression on his face. It was so empty. So lifeless, like a wax doll. “Stop doing that,” Chuuya snapped, and Dazai raised a single eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“Trying to freak me out.”

“Is it working?”

With a scream of anger, frustration, and pent-up aggression, Chuuya lashed out with a kick that should have hit Dazai in the side. But no, the infuriating bastard dodged it easily, sliding to the side and away like a slippery eel. Chuuya made to throw a punch, but feinted. He caught Dazai in the side of the head with a roundhouse kick. Dazai only laughed. “Chuuya,” he said, his voice whisper-quiet. “When have I ever been wrong?”

Chuuya stopped, then, and clenched his jaw because he knew that Dazai was never, ever wrong. “Fine,” he said stiffly. “Allies. For now.”

“I expected nothing less,” said the dickhead, and Chuuya bit down on a snarl. He pushed past him and yanked open the door, walking into the empty stone corridors beyond. He stormed off, fully intending to go lock himself in the room he had been given by the headmaster. That man was nearly as bad as Dazai, Chuuya groused. Always saying something with a double meaning and talking in circles. If anyone in this castle had a hidden agenda, it was sure to be him. 

Instead, he got lost. It was those stupid moving staircases. They brought him to the wrong floor and when he tried finding another staircase, hopefully to take him to the right floor, he got lost in a strange corridor. He should have just used his ability and walked up the walls, but it was too late for that now. 

There were doors lining the right hand side of the corridor. Chuuya peeked inside one, but it was just another abandoned classroom with desks shoved to the side of the room and a blackboard on the far wall. He figured if he kept walking, he was bound to end up somewhere he recognized. If not, he’d punch his way out. It couldn’t be too hard. 

Instead he kept walking, and walking, spiraling deeper into the castle. It felt almost like the walls were herding him somewhere. _Shitty creepy magic castle_ , he thought, his hands in his pockets. He let his ability activate, the comforting reddish glow surrounding him a comfort. For the Tainted Sorrow was maybe one of the few things he liked about himself, even though it wasn’t really his. It was Arahabaki’s, albeit watered down so he could use it without killing himself. Either way, it belonged to _him_ , Chuuya Nakahara, and nobody could take it away from him.

He eventually found himself faced with a dead end, and another door. With a curse, he opened it, and was faced by an empty room. “Fuck off,” he yelled, and slammed the door shut and turned around. It’s what he should’ve done in the first place. He walked back the way he came and eventually found himself back at ground level, in one of the corridors off the Great Hall. He glanced at the staircase closest to him, which was perfectly still, as if to tempt him. “No,” he spat, and immediately felt silly for speaking to an inanimate object. Instead, he walked up the wall and glared at the staircase. It still didn’t move. 

Chuuya pointedly ignored it, walking all the way up to the third floor, where his room was. The extra-stuff-that-comes-with-the-bandages was somehow already there, at the door to his own room—which was beside Chuuya’s. It made sense for logistic reasons, but it still annoyed him. 

“Did you get lost?” he asked, an innocent smile on his face. “Stupid staircases,” Chuuya replied. 

“Oh,” said Dazai, before tapping his chin with a finger. “I broke the one that goes from the ground floor to this one with my ability. It was such a pain.”

Chuuya kicked in his door. 

[It is the next day, and it’s just as foggy and cloudy as it was when they first arrived. All the teachers and staff of Hogwarts, excepting Severus and Albus, come to school today. It is the day before the students arrive. Chuuya is antsy, as the headmaster has been too busy to brief them on what exactly they’ll be expected to do. The headmaster is not actually busy. He has been slowly replacing all of Severus’s clothes with identical ones a shade lighter than the previous, and this takes most of his considerable intellect and free time. Perhaps by the time the school year starts, Albus will have gotten his dour potions master to a nice shade of dove grey.]

Chuuya received a summons from the headmaster that morning, in the form of a slip of paper sitting innocuously on his desk. He had absolutely no idea how it had gotten there, because his door was locked at all times and he was a notoriously light sleeper. He’d lost count of the number of times he startled awake in the middle of the night, only to find his fan had made a weird noise. Magic, probably, but it was still off-putting. 

It was written in Japanese, so at least he didn’t have to go over and bash in Dazai’s door to get him to translate. Small mercies. 

He was to come to a room in the dungeons after breakfast. So far, he’d been eating breakfast in the Great Hall. Somehow, the food always appeared by the time he sat down, and it was the sort of heavy food that made his stomach roil unpleasantly. So he put on his hat and trudged down to the ground floor, pointedly walking down the wall rather than using Dazai’s broken staircase. The corridors were as empty and silent as ever, except for the buzz of something on his skin. The ambient magic in this place was really starting to mess with his danger sense. It was the feeling of an ability rising to the surface, almost activated but not quite. A distinctly uncomfortable feeling for a man who associated activating abilities with imminent violence. 

The Great Hall was just as empty, the four long wooden tables standing stark and bare except for a single meal sitting at one on the far side of the hall from the door. He sat down and began eating as quickly as possible, not wanting to be late for the meeting when the client had finally _deigned_ to brief him. Dazai would probably be there, Chuuya realized with a faint sense of annoyance, but he was starting to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t getting rid of him any time soon. Part of him deeply resented being a pawn in the hands of men whose minds worked in strange ways, but the rest of him had long been resigned to it. Don’t question the Boss’s motives, he reminded himself. 

Having shoved the last of the sausage into his mouth, he got up and started walking. If he remembered right, the dungeons could be reached by a staircase off the left corridor. Hopefully. If weird shit like yesterday happened again he was just going to punch through the floor, property damage be damned. 

He made it to the designated room fifteen minutes later, having nearly fallen off a staircase when his foot got caught in a trick step. He was starting to really, really hate this place. The door was open, so he came straight in, hands in his pockets and radiating menace. “Finally have time, old man?” he grumbled, before realizing the person in the office was Batman and not the client. Was it just him, or were his robes dark grey rather than black?

“The headmaster is otherwise occupied,” he said stiffly. 

“Great.” Chuuya busied himself by glancing around the office. There were a multitude of old books and jars of strange plants and what looked like animal parts. On the wall was a certificate of teaching, awarded to one “Severus Snape”. Finally. He could stop calling him Batman. 

“Take a seat,” said Snape, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. Chuuya turned the chair around and sat so he could rest his chin on the back, darkly amused by the sneer on Snape’s face. “Am I finally going to be briefed on what I’m supposed to be doing here?” Chuuya asked, watching the man. 

“Yes. You have a basic understanding of the way magic works, correct?”

Chuuya inclined his head, maintaining eye contact. Snape blew out a long breath. “This should be the headmaster’s job,” he muttered, and Chuuya took pity on him. “Ah, the life of a subordinate,” he said. “Forever doomed to be doing the work nobody else wants to do.”

The man’s lips quirked upward. “Indeed,” he drawled, before sitting down at his own desk. He laced his fingers under his chin, and with a start, Chuuya realized he bore more than a passing resemblance to the Boss. 

“There are two factions in this country,” he began, his dark gaze resting on Chuuya. “The Order of the Phoenix, who are a paramilitary organization reporting directly to Albus Dumbledore, and the Death Eaters, a terrorist cell under a man who calls himself Lord Voldemort. Both are relatively small but have large amounts of talent and firepower, which is why if war were to break out, it would be devastating to our society. The Dark Lord is a xenophobic monster who kills innocents and tortures his enemies. We, as the Order, need him to be eliminated to preserve the structure of Wizarding Britain.”

“So, it’s a gang war?” Chuuya asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Snape rolled his eyes. “You could put it like that,” he allowed, and continued on. “Taking out Lord Voldemort is our main objective. He is one of the most powerful wizards to ever walk the Earth, and he is also immortal. He tied parts of his soul to seven different objects. We have, so far, destroyed two and we know the locations of the other five.”

“What are they?” 

“We have eliminated the diary and the ring. Left are his family locket, which the headmaster has traced to a cave on the coast, one in the vault of his most trusted follower, a snake he keeps at his side at all times, an item concealed inside this school, and a boy.”

“A boy? You want us to kill a kid?” 

Snape visibly clenched his jaw. “With Dazai’s nullification ability, we are hoping he can unbind the magic that keeps his soul bound to the boy’s. Him simply touching one of these items will likely destroy them, though the snake will have to be killed outright. Your objective is to destroy these items, and when the time comes, provide backup for the Order. The headmaster is angling for a single, decisive confrontation, projected to be in a few months. The faster he is killed, the less people have to suffer.”

“Understood,” Chuuya said, before tilting his head. “Shouldn’t Dazai be here for this?”

“Dazai,” said Snape, his tone bland, “is currently in the hospital wing for injuries incurred trying to drown himself in the lake. His antics incurred the wrath of our resident giant squid.”

Chuuya could only stare, open-mouthed, before cursing and sprinting out the door. “I’m going to kill him,” he muttered, his ability rising to coat his skin before he could push it down. When he arrived at the hospital wing, he skidded inside and saw the stupid bastard lying in a cot with his arm in a sling. “You _idiot_!” Chuuya hissed, advancing on him. “Why would you go for a swim in the lake? We were told about the squid when we first got here!”

Dazai cracked open one amber eye to glare balefully at Chuuya. “Pipe down, slug,” he said. “Your breathing is so loud.”

“I’ll show you loud—”

“Shhhhhhh,” said the nurse, who came bustling in with hands on her hips, before gesturing wildly at the door and snapping at him in English.

“See, Chuuya? You’re harassing me,” Dazai said, affecting a beleaguered expression. 

Chuuya threw his hands up in the air. “Who even puts a squid at a school?” he grumbled, eyeing the hospital nurse. She was glaring at him too. Jeez, he hated this place. 

“Wizards,” said Dazai, utterly blase. 

“Whatever,” Chuuya snapped, walking out of the room. “You missed the briefing because of your stupid stunt, anyway.”

“That’s why I have you, Chuuya!” Dazai called after him, and Chuuya shut the door behind him with a resounding crash. 

After reorganizing his few belongings for the fifteenth time, he went down to the Great Hall for lunch. But it was different this time—there were multiple adults milling around. The teachers and staff must have arrived today, Chuuya realized with a sinking feeling. A few of them were looking at him curiously, and a couple with outright suspicion. One of them, an older woman with a tight bun and numerous wrinkles, swept over to him. She asked him something in English and Chuuya could only shrug, having absolutely no idea what she was saying. 

She said a few more things, face growing more stern as all he was capable of doing was shrugging his shoulders and glancing desperately around for an escape. 

Unfortunately, escape came in the form of a bandage-clad lunatic rounding the corner with his hands in his pockets and whistling a jaunty tune. His arm was still in a sling, and Chuuya suddenly realized he hadn’t asked Dazai what he’d done to it. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t broken, because that would be a massive pain to deal with. Stupid Dazai, always getting injured in various ways. 

“Oi, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya said. “Can you tell her I don’t speak English?”

Dazai glanced around the room, evidently coming to the same conclusion Chuuya had, before swanning over to him with a ridiculous smile on his face. He slung his uninjured arm around Chuuya’s shoulders. “Me, Dazai,” he said brightly. “We is...Ja-pan-ese. Cannot speak.”

Chuuya boggled at him. Was he….

The woman drew herself up, frown lines deepening, and she marched off. She made a beeline for the distant figure of the client, who was wearing robes in bright purple and yellow. 

“What are you playing at, mackerel?” Chuuya hissed, and Dazai turned that beaming grin on him. “I’m messing with them!” he said, eyes starry, and Chuuya huffed. He bopped Dazai on the top of his head with a gloved fist. “I despise you.”

“I can’t stand you, either,” Dazai grumbled, rubbing his head and glaring. 

The client was walking over, ugly robes flapping as he came closer. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the staff right now,” he said, a secret smile on his face. Chuuya sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

Dumbledore called the room to attention and Dazai whispered translations into his ear, being helpful for once. “Welcome, everyone!” he said cheerfully. “I’ve invited these two men from Japan to be independent contractors. This is Chuuya Nakahara—” Chuuya raised a hand. “—and this is Osamu Dazai. They will be a great help in the coming difficulties!”

The stern-looking woman from before lifted an eyebrow. “They can’t even speak our language, Albus.”

Dumbledore only twinkled at them. “Translation spells exist,” he replied, smiling benevolently. “I expect them to be treated with utmost respect.”

The exceedingly short man with a wiry beard bounced over to the two of them. “I speak some Japanese,” he chirped, “Picked it up on the international dueling circuit. My name is Filius Flitwick, charms professor. How are you finding your stay?” 

“It’s been...hospitable,” Chuuya said diplomatically, and the man beamed. “I’ve heard amazing things about the magical schools in Japan,” he said.

“Ah,” said Chuuya, wondering how to respond. 

“We’re not magical!” Dazai said, throwing up a peace sign. “We’re ability users!”

The short man seemed to grow even more excited. “Ability users?” he asked, practically vibrating. “Why, I’ve heard of you all, but I’ve never had the chance to speak to one in person. Is it true you only have one spell you can use?”

Chuuya made a vaguely assenting noise. 

“Marvelous, just marvelous. May I ask—what do your abilities _do_?”

He had the sneaking suspicion that the others in the Great Hall were listening to this conversation, their eyes on him and Dazai, even if they didn’t know what was being said. “Gravity manipulation,” he said vaguely. “The laws of physics don’t apply to things I touch.” 

Flitwick literally hopped in place. “Are there limitations?”

Chuuya thought for a moment and decided that Corruption wasn’t exactly the type of thing he should bring up now, in front of all these suspicious Englishmen. “Not that I know of,” he said, and it wasn’t entirely untrue. For the Tainted Sorrow didn’t actually have any limitations other than that he needed to be in contact with something for it to work. Corruption was the part of his ability that had limitations, but he only used it in dire situations. And only ever when Dazai would be around to make sure he didn’t kill himself from the strain. 

“Brilliant,” said Flitwick, and turned to Dazai. “What’s yours?”

Dazai’s mouth twitched, almost as if he were going to smile that fake grin again. “No Longer Human,” he said, “nullifies abilities that touch my skin. It works on magic, too, hence the gloves.” He wiggled his fingers at Flitwick, who seemed to utterly be in awe. “I see why Albus hired you,” he said, bushy eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. He gestured at Chuuya. “Definitely a combat specialist, with that kind of ability, and as for you, Mr. Dazai…” he tilted his head. “If magic cannot touch you, you can walk through entire battlefields and come out unscathed.”

“That’s the plan,” said Chuuya, who was unexpectedly charmed by the tiny man. There was something about him that was so utterly genuine, and it was a breath of fresh air. After all, he worked for Ougai Mori and his ex-partner was _Dazai_. There was no escaping plots upon plots in Yokohama, and even here, half a world away, he was entirely sure the headmaster had a secret agenda. 

“Would you like to spar sometime?” Flitwick asked. 

Chuuya opened his mouth, ready to deny him, before reconsidering. He hadn’t actually had a fight in three days, which was probably a new record for him. Even when he wasn’t on missions, he found time to spar with ane-san or the Black Lizard. “Why not,” Chuuya said, and the professor looked delighted. “I’ll referee,” said Dazai, lazily. But Chuuya could see the sharp glint of interest in the bastard’s dark eyes. He was planning something, because Dazai was always planning something. 

“Brilliant,” Flitwick repeated, grinning. “Later this afternoon, perhaps? We can do it on the grounds near the forest at, say, four.”

Chuuya’s answering grin was, if perhaps not as predatory as Dazai’s at his worst, full of teeth. “I’ll look forward to it,” he promised, and found that he was telling the truth. 

[In Albus’s office, Severus sits slumped in a cushy armchair he conjured mere seconds ago. “We’re doomed,” he moans, and Albus regards him calmly. It is twenty minutes before Chuuya Nakahara and Filius Flitwick are set to duel. Albus secretly fears that the property damage will be immense, and makes a note to keep them well away from Hagrid’s hut.]

“Oh, absolutely,” Albus agreed. He looked the epitome of cheerful and this, above all, pissed Severus off. 

“He broke the moving staircase,” Severus hissed. “And nobody knows how to fix it, because the moving staircases were never coded into the wards and it was never written down who charmed them or _how_. There is now a perfectly normal staircase sitting in the middle of Hogwarts!”

“The stairs are a menace,” Albus said idly. “There’s at least one first-year, every year without fail, who injures themselves on one.”

“It’s a right of passage,” Severus shot back. “And he tried to commit suicide by jumping into the lake in the wee hours of the morning, knowing full well that the giant squid hates being woken up. _Suicide,_ Albus! We’ve invited a suicidal maniac to a school full of children!”

“It’s highly unlikely he’ll try to commit suicide in front of the kids,” Albus pointed out. “And I’ve been told that, despite numerous and frequent attempts at killing himself, he’s never actually succeeded—and he emerged from this particular endeavor with nothing worse than a dislocated shoulder. Additionally, I hardly think you’re one to talk about traumatizing children.”

Severus could only glare impotently, aware that Albus was right about multiple things even though he very much did not like it. 

“You’re not the poster child for child safety, yourself,” Albus continued. “You did, after all, join a budding terrorist organization while you were in school. Isn’t that the sort of thing that Muggle schools tell students _not_ to do?”

“You _lead_ a paramilitary organization consisting of adults you recruited as teenagers,” Severus hissed. 

Albus spread his hands. “What can I say, Severus? They all joined of their free will as adults.”

“You,” Severus said pointedly, “are a terrible headmaster.”

“Hear, hear,” said Phineas Nigellus from the back wall, before the glares from the other portraits silenced him. 

Albus opened his mouth to say something in retort before his eyes narrowed behind his half-moon spectacles. “Severus,” he said calmly, and the shift in tone gave the potions master pause. 

“Yes?”

“It appears I have a visitor. Do make sure nobody is killed and that Hagrid’s hut remains standing,” he said, before nodding to Fawkes. The phoenix, which had been sitting quietly on its perch, obediently flew to rest on his shoulder. In a whirl of smokeless fire, the headmaster was gone and Severus Snape was now apparently responsible for making sure nobody died on school grounds—a feat Albus himself had not managed. Severus quietly mourned the loss of the last of his sanity before trudging out of the office and making his way down to the grounds, where the fight was to take place. 

[On the edge of school grounds, a tall, slim woman with curly blonde hair stands. She emits an air of sophistication and the sort of homicidal intent that all rich and powerful women cultivate. Albus appears in front of her in a flash of phoenix fire. His gaze is unusually stern.]

“Albus!” she said cheerfully, leaning a hand on her hip. “How good of you to grant me an audience personally. Why, I’d think you would have sent one of your favored mooks to parlay. Like the one with the hooked nose and the hair that’s never seen a drop of shampoo in its life.”

“Agatha,” Albus said, his face grave and voice serious. “It’s polite to avoid insulting other people’s subordinates.”

“Dear, I’ve never been polite in my life,” she replied, stepping closer to him. Albus has his wand in his hand and Fawkes’s wings flared before she can get within two feet of him. “What business does the Knight Commander of the Order of the Clock Tower have with Hogwarts?” he asked, a knockback jinx on the tip of his tongue. Letting her get in close was the worst possible idea, considering he had not been at peak physical strength in years and Agatha, last he heard, was highly proficient in hand-to-hand.

Agatha Christie’s bright blue eyes, so like Albus’s own and yet not, seemed to go cold. “You have two foreign ability users in that castle of yours,” she said. “They’re not magical, and therefore, they fall under my jurisdiction.”

“It’s my understanding that the Order of the Clock Tower is not, in fact, a legal entity, and is just as underground as the Order of the Phoenix. Also, you stole my naming scheme.”

“Then you should have had it trademarked,” she sniffed. “Whether or not we’re legitimate in the eyes of the law is a mere technicality, I’m afraid. I don’t like leaving ability users, much less _those two_ , unmonitored.”

“They’re under my supervision,” Albus replied, his hand still clenched around his wand. 

“Your supervision isn’t _enough_ ,” said Agatha, twirling her smoking pipe in one elegant hand. “Those two decimated an entire organization in one night, and that was years ago. The gravity manipulator killed an ability singularity that would have required enough bombs to destroy a city to stop, and the other one’s nullification ability has no counterpart here in the west. If left to run amok, they could devastate this country.”

“They are not running ‘amok’, as you put it,” Albus said sharply. “I have them well in hand.”

“Your castle will crumble around your self-righteous ears,” the woman said, drawing herself up stiffly. “Know this, Albus Dumbledore. If your actions in bringing them here cause harm to this country, there will be no peace for you, not for the rest of your short life.”

Albus’s eyes flashed. “Enough, Agatha. I care about Britain as much as you do.”

She sneered. “You only care about your wizards,” she said. “The Order of the Clock Tower protects Britain’s populace whether or not they’re born with the genes to twist the world to their whim.”

“Do not presume to tell me my business,” he rumbled, magic sizzling on his skin as his temper flared.

“Foreign threats _are_ my business.”

“They are not threats!”

Agatha regarded him cooly. “Do you truly believe that?” 

Albus deflated somewhat, the magic settling rather than remaining poised to crackle through the air at the slightest provocation. “Perhaps they are threats,” he admitted, and Agatha opened her mouth, ready to press her case, but he cut her off. “However, I have them under control. Chuuya Nakahara will not threaten the possibility of, if not an alliance, certainly an entente between Japanese ability users and British magical society. And it is my understanding that Osamu Dazai has no love for causing havoc for reasons other than personal gain.”

“And if the situation changes?” Agatha asked, the light in her eyes as feral as ever, even if it was chained by respectability and duty. A truly terrifying woman, Albus reflected, with the drive to achieve whatever her ruthlessly pragmatic heart desired. 

“If the situation changes,” Albus said heavily, “You will be the first person I contact.”

Agatha nodded, a single, sharp thrust of her chin. “I expected no less from you, headmaster,” she said, in an odd show of respect. “But know this. I would stake myself to your ministry’s front gate to protect Britain, non-aggression pact be damned. If you lose control over the foreigners or your little mistake that you call a Dark Lord is not dealt with, you will all _burn_.” Her face was resolute as she turned on her heel and disapparated with a pop. 

Albus let his shoulders slump, now that the threat was well and truly gone. He had tweaked the wards to keep out ability users decades ago, after the incident caused by Agatha and her rather bloodthirsty gang of wealthy criminals. Any gifted who came within twenty meters of the wardline would cause a little alarm bell to go off inside his skull. He had known she would come eventually. There was, after all, no way she had not known that there were two Japanese ability users in Britain, and the fact that he’d invited them in without consulting her was enough of a snub to annoy her. However, at least then, the two of them knew were they stood. While Albus had the utmost confidence in his subordinates, he wouldn’t pick a fight with Agatha’s group lightly.

Slowly, he made his way back to the castle, not wanting to bother Fawkes again for another ride. As he drew closer, he began to hear several sounds. The first was spellfire, a sound he was intimately familiar with, and the less familiar sounds of Chuuya screaming—in rage or exertion, he couldn’t quite tell. Quite possibly both. 

Severus probably had it well in hand, Albus thought to himself, ignoring the little voice that was telling him he should probably go supervise the way he had told Agatha he would. He instead meandered his way into the kitchens to have a cup of tea with the house elves, and possibly eat an entire tin of lemon drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's absolutely an Agatha Christie subplot. Let's hope Asagiri finishes up the Decay of Angels arc soon, so I don't have to bullshit up some ability users for the Order of the Clock Tower. She-Who-I-Bounce-Ideas-Off-Of/Bungou crack dealer warned me against including the Order, but I don't think Agatha would have stood for it. In retrospect, I've probably bitten off more than I could chew, but that's not entirely out of character for me.
> 
> Next chapter: featuring! Chuuya v. Flitwick. Will Hagrid's hut survive? Will Flitwick survive? And what does Dazai know that Chuuya doesn't? (A lot, probably.) My thoughts and prayers go out to Severus Snape.
> 
> Oh, and, random sidenote: I have a piece of paper detailing all of Chuuya and Dazai's canonical nicknames for each other that I reference far too often for my peace of mind.


	4. Schemes

#  **Chapter Four: Schemes**

“Yet, I always liked grand destruction. While trembling at the shells and incendiary bombs, I was at the same time tremendously excited at such frenzied annihilation; and yet I believe that I never loved and longed for human beings more than at that time.”

_ Darakuron  _ by Ango Sakaguchi

[Severus sits at the edge of the field, arms crossed and leaning against the wall of the castle. He feels inexplicably tired, and the raging battle in front of him serves no purpose other than to exhaust him further. Chuuya and Flitwick had started their duel thirty seconds ago, and already, grass had been torn up to such an extent that there appeared to be a very patchy crater in the middle of the grounds. He wants to take a nap. Dazai, standing on the sidelines with his arm in a sling, is watching the fight avidly—but he makes sure that his visage displays nothing but boredom.]

Severus watched the fight, his gaze intent. Filius’s opening salvo was the chain he was famous for on the dueling circuits—three childish spells that nevertheless, fired off quickly and skillfully enough, could off-balance one’s opponent enough to take an opening. A knockback, a tripping jinx, and a Confundo. Getting hit by even one of those three spells should, by all rights, exploit a flaw in any weak defense. It wasn’t as effective if the other person put up a shield first thing.

However, Chuuya Nakahara didn’t have that luxury. 

Instead, he somehow dodged the first two spells and blocked the third with—was that a pebble? Severus was inwardly amazed at the dexterity that took. The pebble, surrounded by a reddish orange haze, splintered into a small cloud of splinters. Each of the splinters, almost too fast for the eye to catch, went soaring at the charms professor. Luckily for him, he had shot off the chain and then put up a shield. 

Nakahara shot towards him, far faster than a normal human was able to, but suddenly Flitwick was several meters away and closer to the treeline. “Mr. Dazai gave me a very good tip,” the diminutive man said cheerfully, and Severus watched Nakahara’s eyes narrow. 

“What did the bastard tell you?” he asked, barrelling forward again, leg poised to sweep into a devastating kick.

“Don’t let you get close,” Flitwick said, smiling, and again, he appeared several meters away. His wand was already moving, starting another chain of spells. 

There were five spells that Severus could make out, but there were two he didn’t identify. A banisher, a confundus, and then two blasting curses. The last spell he could make out in the torrent of colored lights was another knockback. Filius was angling for space, Severus realized. As a wizard, Filius was most effective at long range. Allowing the ability user to get close enough to touch him would be a death sentence, but how long could he keep up his strange non-Apparition teleportation technique? 

None of Flitwick’s spells connected, each of them dodged with blinding speed or caught by a pebble except for the banisher, which Nakahara hadn’t twisted out of the way of in time. He was blown back a few feet, shoes scoring skid marks in the grass, before the reddish glow of his ability flared and he came to a stop. “Now that’s more like it,” he said, grinning viciously and charging. Each of his steps made mini potholes in the dirt as he advanced, the reddish haze around him seeming to grow denser.

Flitwick cast his first verbal spell of the spar. “Bombarda Maxima!” he yelled, and Nakahara was already dodging, leaping out of the way. But the spell hadn’t been meant for him. The blasting curse tore up the ground, creating a crater between Flitwick and Nakahara, and throwing clods of dirt into the air. In a second, Flitwick was somehow in the air, having replaced one of the chunks of dirt. There was a wicked gleam in his eye as Nakahara reared back, eyes widening in surprise.

Nakahara swiped at him with a kick, but Flitwick twisted underneath it, his wand arm raised a spell poised at the tip. “Incendio,” he murmured, and flames bloomed from the tip of his wand like a deadly flower. The ability user swore viciously and shot upwards, tucking into a roll. But the updraft of his movement caused the flames to billow upward, licking at the edge of his coat. In a single movement, he shed the cloak and flipped backwards, putting some distance of his own between himself and Flitwick. But rather than looking angry, there was a wide, feral smile on his face. 

“To your left!” Dazai called, and Nakahara glanced to the left as if on instinct or by habit. But Flitwick’s spell was barrelling in from the right, the glow of a cutting curse sweeping past and brushing by Chuuya’s ear. “Stop sabotaging me!” he yelled, twisting to the side. “Referee my  _ ass! _ ”

“Chuuya isn’t doing so well,” Dazai said cheerfully, but Severus hadn’t missed the fact that if Nakahara hadn’t turned at that exact moment, the cutting curse would probably have hit him in the shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at the other ability user. “And why not?” he drawled. 

“He’s fighting nonlethally,” said Dazai. “If he wasn’t restricted like that, Mr. Flitwick would be dead.”

Severus almost felt insulted on his comrade’s behalf, but before he could open his mouth to rebuke him, Dazai had pulled a little pennant out of nowhere and was waving it. “Go, Mr. Flitwick!” he yelled, and Severus could only watch, bemused.

Nakahara’s head snapped around. “Shut up, bastard!” he snarled, but Flitwick was already weaving another spell chain. “Don’t get distracted, now,” said Flitwick, shooting off at least two more banishers and a Confringo. “I am your opponent.”

Nakahara’s bloodthirsty grin reemerged as he whipped to face the charms professor. Without a single word, he shot forward, and Flitwick was already moving, already several feet away, but he’d never been trying to get into Flitwick’s space at all. Instead, he was making straight for Hagrid’s hut. 

“NO PROPERTY DAMAGE!” Severus hollered, and all he got in acknowledgement was a wave of Nakahara’s gloved hand. He skidded to a stop in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch, hands now in his pockets as he hunched over. A large pumpkin by his feet began to glow with a red aura, and it rocketed toward Flitwick, who had been sprinting closer. It was too fast for him to dodge or put up a shield and it hit him full in the face, exploding into chunks of rind and pumpkin guts. 

Severus stood, certain that must have laid the professor out flat, but miraculously, he was still standing. “Enhanced goblin constitution!” Flitwick said with a smile, covered in bits of pumpkin. He had started weaving another chain of spells. “You’ll need to do better than that!”

Nakahara stared, open-mouthed, at the little man who had just tanked a pumpkin flying at full velocity. “I guess I don’t have to pull my punches, then,” he said gleefully, and shot up into the air. He went flying up, so high that Severus could only see his silhouette blocking the glare of the sun. With a long, screeching yell, he dropped with his fist outstretched. 

Dazai clucked his tongue. “Mr. Flitwick’s done for,” he said, and was that a hint of fondness in his tone? Severus couldn’t be sure. 

Flitwick’s shield was up and waiting, but the force of the other man’s strike caused it to indent so far it nearly touched the man’s shoulder. Severus had literally never seen a move like that, not one powerful enough to  _ dent  _ a Protego. Flitwick wasn’t smiling anymore. His face had hardened into stern lines as he concentrated, his mouth moving. But before he could get another spell off, Nakahara had abandoned his initial strike and flipped, landing in the dirt. The red aura of his ability flexed and shot out in a ring around him, knocking Flitwick back even through the shield. With that brief moment of time, Nakahara had laid a hand on one of the enormous trees on the edge of the forest, lifting it easily, and chucked it at the professor. Flitwick blocked it with his shield but suddenly, the ability user was in front of him, feet fixed to the bark of the tree and his body in a low, crouching position.

“Nice try, old man,” Nakahara said, face split into a toothy smile. “But even you can’t beat gravity.”

“His shield blocked the strike,” Severus said to Dazai, who laughed. “Look at the ground, Mr. Snape.”

Flitwick and Severus both glanced down and saw several rocks by the professor’s feet, turned up when Nakahara’s shoes had dug furrows into the dirt and made craters, glowing a faint red. His eyes widened as they rose into the air inside of his shield. Flitwick moved, to dodge or to put up another shield, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. The ability user had taken advantage of his split second distraction to flash behind him and get to his unprotected back. 

“Yield,” Nakahara said, and Flitwick fell to his knees from the sheer force of Nakahara’s ability. From Severus’s vantage point, it simply looked as if Flitwick was being shoved down. When he would ask the charms professor later, the man would smile grimly. Nakahara’s ability had been everywhere and everything at once, all of it pushing him into the dirt no matter how hard he tried to rise, to resist it. When his knees hit the packed dirt and he was about to faceplant, Flitwick let out a sharp breath. “I yield,” he said, gritting his teeth, and felt the overwhelming pressure release.

He turned to see Nakahara standing with his hands again in his pockets, the feral light not quite gone from his eyes. “You magicals aren’t half bad,” Severus heard him say. 

“You’re pretty good yourself,” Filius said, hopping to his feet. “We should do this again sometime. I haven’t had that good of a workout in years.”

Nakahara huffed, and Severus took this as his cue to step in. “Sometime,” he said testily, “will not be  _ soon _ . The headmaster said no property damage.” He gestured at the torn up ground, the numerous craters, and the pumpkin guts littering the dirt and still covering Flitwick—not to mention Nakahara’s jacket, which was still smoldering. 

“It could have been worse,” Nakahara said, still grinning fiercely. 

Dazai had come up to them, looking as if he had not a care in the world. “It could have been a lot worse,” he said. “Chuuya didn’t even take off his gloves!”

“Bastard, trying to distract me,” Nakahara snapped. 

“I just wanted the fight to be fair—” Nakahara swiped at him with a kick, bouncing upward and backflipping over him. “Now, now, Chuuya, not in front of the clients,” Dazai chastised, dodging easily. “Besides, you know attacking me is futile.”

“Asshole,” Nakahara growled, twitching. 

“As entertaining as this may be, gentlemen, I do believe we should go inside before the centaurs come to investigate the source of the screaming,” Severus said dryly, and Nakahara ceased his attacks with a dismissive scoff. “Yeah, whatever, Batman,” he said, turning towards the castle. Severus watched him, as well as Dazai and Filius, head back to the entrance. He stayed behind to survey the damage.

All of it, the work of one man. And he’d been holding back, Severus knew, and was restricted even further by the bounds of a nonlethal spar. He’d assumed that they didn’t want him to permanently damage their charms professor and had adjusted his style accordingly. From what he had seen of the fight, Nakahara was a powerful opponent in battle, capable of both long and short range combat but far more devastating up close. All it took was one touch to kill, and if he could speed up projectiles enough to  _ bend  _ shields, Severus didn’t even want to know what a bullet could become in that man’s hands. Nobody could put up a shield quickly enough to stop a Muggle projectile, he knew. Besides, a single, ability-assisted kick from Nakahara could probably kill a man. 

He took in the torn up battlefield with a grim sense of satisfaction. All this and more, paired with Dazai’s ability to walk through a magical firefight completely unscathed? The Dark Lord was not at all prepared for what was coming. 

[It is the next night, and the students are piling into the tables in the Great Hall. It seems to be another normal term at Hogwarts, other than a couple new faces that they don’t recognize. At the staff table, Dazai sits with an empty chair next to him, merrily conversing with the headmaster. The students suspect he is the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. They are entirely wrong, and the entire staff table finds that extremely amusing. Slughorn is also there, but he is paid less attention because he is not young, handsome, and covered in mysterious bandages.]

Hermione noticed a new face at the Gryffindor table. He was older, probably a sixth or seventh year, and his hair is a few shades lighter than Ron to be more of a burnt orange. He was also not wearing the standard Hogwarts uniform and, rather than a typical wizard hat, he had on a very fancy fedora. Never one to not indulge her curiosity, she sat down next to him. “Hello,” she said, tilting her head. “Are you new?”

“ _ Je ne parle pas anglais _ ,” he replied grumpily, and Hermione’s face lit up. A fellow French speaker! Nobody else in Gryffindor spoke French other than Lavender, who only knew a few choice phrases to make her seem less fashionable. “ _ Ah, mais je parle français! _ ” she said, excited, and the other boy’s eyebrows rose. Hermione, utterly oblivious to the bemused looks of Harry and Ron, began to chatter rapidly. 

“Are you new?” she asked again. “You must be, you don’t even have the uniform yet. And I’ve never seen you before.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Exchange student from Beauxbatons. My name is Chuuya.”

“Is that Japanese?” 

“Yeah, that’s where I’m originally from. My, er, guardian moves around a lot.”

Hermione nodded, intrigued. “I’m Hermione,” she said, before pressing forward. “How are you finding the castle? It’s so beautiful, isn’t it? Though I suppose Beauxbatons must be just as beautiful…”

She kept on speaking, unaware that Chuuya was doing the equivalent of smiling and nodding as she monologued. She also didn’t notice him shoot a glare at the staff table, where Dazai was doing a terrible job of keeping a straight face. She did, however, notice who he was looking at. “Do you know him?” she asked. “Harry and Ron—those two, over there—think he’s the new Defense professor. We get a new one every year, you see. They say there’s a curse on the position.”

Chuuya, to her great surprise, started laughing. “Definitely not,” he replied. 

“And how would you know?” she said, affronted. 

The boy fumbled, glancing around. “Uh, he’s an acquaintance of mine.”

“Then why’s he sitting at the staff table?” she said then, eyes narrowing. She watched as he cast about for an answer, finally settling on, “He’s an independent contractor.”

“For  _ what _ , exactly? Hogwarts has never hired independent contractors. It says so, in  _ Hogwarts, a History. _ ” She was outright glaring at him now, sure she had caught him in a lie. He let out a long, defeated groan. The man at the staff table was slumped over the table, laughing at him. “You win,” he yelled over, before looking at Hermione. “Yeah, alright. I’m not a Beauxbatons student, but that asshole over there—” he jerked a thumb at the bandaged man, “bet that I wouldn’t be able to pretend I was for more than five minutes before being found out.”

Hermione sniffed. “You shouldn’t swear,” she said severely, and the boy just laughed at her again. She was beginning to dislike him. He bowed, taking his hat off. “Chuuya Nakahara,” he said, as if by way of introduction, “and I am, actually, an independent contractor.” He turned and stomped up to the staff table, snarling something at the bandaged one in...was that Japanese? He plopped down into the empty chair and put his chin in his hand. He whispered something to his companion, who laughed at him before saying something to Professor McGonagall. The professor looked at Hermione, smiled, and raised her glass in a tiny toast. Hermione felt her cheeks redden as the professor mouthed, “Five points to Gryffindor.”

The sorting came and went, and the headmaster made his usual inane pre-feast speech before the food appeared. Hermione was too caught up in Ron and Harry’s hushed conversation about, well, everything. Their summers, the threat of Voldemort hanging over their heads, all of it. 

“The man with the mustache,” Harry said. “He’s going to be Potions professor, and Snape’s going to be Defense.”

Ron groaned theatrically as Hermione said reflexively, “Professor Snape.”

Harry waved her off. “But I don’t know the other two,” he said with a frown. “Weren’t you talking to the redhead, Hermione?”

She scowled. “He claims they’re independent contractors, though that makes no sense. Hogwarts has never had independent contractors. Besides, what are they even contracted to  _ do _ ? They look barely out of school.” She was examining the two of them, trying to figure out what they were here for. They were clearly friends of a sort, though Hermione watched as they were obviously having an argument. Nakahara’s clothes were very fancy, and both he and his as-of-yet-unnamed companion was pointedly non-wizarding in their choice of dress. Were they, perhaps, Muggleborn? The bandages were a strange clue. They could be hiding a Dark Mark, Hermione thought, as the bandages came all the way to his hands, or something else entirely. They were also both distinctly Asian in their features despite the bright color of Nakahara’s hair, and both spoke Japanese. 

“Japanese independent contractors,” she muttered to herself, puzzling it over.

Before she knew it, the feast was over and the headmaster was standing once more. “This is Professor Horace Slughorn,” he said to the quieted crowd, “He will be teaching Potions this year. Professor Snape has kindly agreed to take on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post.” He then beamed at them all, grandfatherly expression fixed in place. “I’d like to introduce Chuuya Nakahara and Osamu Dazai. They are independent contractors from Yokohama in Japan, and I expect you to treat them with the same level of respect as you do your professors. Now, Mr. Filch has added to the list of forbidden items, which include but are not limited to…”

Hermione stopped listening. Dumbledore hadn’t actually told her anything she hadn’t known, but she mulled his words over in her head anyway. Independent contractors were people providing a good or a service under a contract, who don’t work regularly for an employer. Freelancers, then? But what on earth  _ for _ ? She couldn’t imagine any goods that the headmaster of Hogwarts and Supreme Mugwump of the ICW wouldn’t be able to procure on his own, much less need to bring people to the school for. So it was, in all likelihood, a service they were providing. But what service?

She had to take into account the current situation. Britain was poised to topple into outright civil war, with Voldemort gathering his forces on the horizon and the ministry being as ineffective as it was. Were they here to protect the school?

Perhaps, but why people from  _ Japan _ ? These were young men, too, considering she had mistaken one for a student when all he had done was sit at the Gryffindor table. She knew worryingly little about Japanese magical society. Were they more powerful, maybe? But what difference could two men realistically make when they looked fresh out of school?

So a guard detail was probably not it, not exactly. 

Hermione surveyed the other teachers, who were all eating their food at varying paces and conversing with each other. However, the two men sat in their own little bubble, isolated but for a few exchanges with the Deputy Headmistress and Dumbledore himself. They can’t be well acquainted with the staff, she guessed, probably contracted by the headmaster himself and taking orders directly from him. So they weren’t  _ teaching assistants _ , that wouldn’t make any sense, or they would’ve been introduced as such. 

The sticking point, she realized, was  _ Japan _ . What did Japan have, specifically Yokohama, that was useful to the headmaster of a school and the leader of an organization—that Britain did not? 

She would find the answer later not in a library book, but in a newspaper her mother had hurriedly tucked into her trunk before she left for school. It was a British newspaper, but it dutifully reported the giant whale that had nearly crashed into Yokohama a few weeks ago and that the only reason it missed the city were the efforts of ability users. Not wizards, whose hands were tied by the International Statute of Secrecy. But ability users. And when she read the smaller blurb about the structure of society in Yokohama, she began to understand. 

She dragged Harry and Ron into a secluded corner of the common room and slammed the newspaper down in front of them. “This is why they’re here,” she hissed, pointing at the picture of a whale. 

Ron looked up at her, utterly gobsmacked. “Who’s here? And for a giant whale?”

But Harry had already picked up the newspaper and was skimming it. “Ability users,” he muttered. “What’re those?”

Hermione huffed. “They’re like wizards, but they’ve only got one spell they’re really, really good at, and it’s called an ability. Or a gift, sometimes. They’re not that active in Britain, but  _ look _ .” She tapped the name of the city in the article. “Yokohama,” she read, looking at her two friends. 

Ron’s gaze sharpened. “The independent contractors,” he said, and Hermione nodded. “You see now, right?”

“They’re Order members,” Harry put in. “What else would Dumbledore hire them for?” 

“I couldn’t think of anything,” Hermione admitted, and Ron took the article next to scan it. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “There’s a mafia in Japan?”

“The Port Mafia,” Hermione said. “But the Armed Detective Agency is what I was thinking of. The article says that there’s a whole branch of the government that deals with ability users, but this is the headmaster we’re talking about. He wouldn’t hire  _ government  _ workers. He trusts them about as far as I could throw Hagrid.”

Ron snorted out a laugh. “Right, so you think they’re from the Armed Detective Agency?”

“It would make the most sense,” said Hermione, and Harry nodded in agreement. “I bet you a chocolate frog card that they’ll be at the next order meeting,” Harry said grimly. 

“I wouldn’t take that bet, mate,” said Ron, cracking a grin. 

Hermione smiled triumphantly. “Where would you two be without me?” she said, prim and proper as ever as she folded the newspaper back up. 

“Dead,” said Ron. 

“Dismembered,” said Harry, smiling slightly for the first time since Sirius had died. 

“Failing our classes,” added Ron, and Hermione whacked him on the shoulder. 

[At the Head Table, during the feast, Dazai is nudging Chuuya on the shoulder. The other teachers pointedly ignore them and Chuuya is trying to follow suit, though he is failing miserably.]

Dazai gestured at Hermione with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “She’ll figure it out first,” he said. Ever since Albus briefed him and Chuuya on the Golden Trio situation, Dazai had been trying to puzzle out the three children. Chuuya, predictably, thought it was a waste of time. Dazai, predictably, was scheming, and Chuuya was annoyed by it but he couldn’t do anything except watch it happen. It looked like Dazai had pinned the girl—Hermione—as the smartest one of the trio, and Chuuya didn’t actually disagree. Her interrogation had put him slightly off balance, already annoyed that his acting skills were being called out. 

“Let me eat my dinner, you tacky bastard,” he grumbled into his food. “And stop being creepy. The Boss hasn’t rubbed off on you that much, has he?” 

To this, Dazai had the nerve to look affronted. “Hat rack,” he sniffed, but Chuuya counted it as a win for his tally.

[The next day dawns bright and clear, which is an entirely novel experience for both Chuuya and Dazai. They’ve gotten used to dour and grey Scotland mornings, so the sunshine is a relief. Chuuya, out of boredom, is trailing Dazai around the castle as he trolls various students. Chuuya has never noticed how amusing Dazai is when he isn’t the target of his obnoxiousness.]

It started that morning with a visit to the hospital wing, because Madam Pomfrey—that was the nurse’s name, apparently—wanted to check on Dazai’s dislocated shoulder. Chuuya had reamed him out for it already, because he had no use for a defective partner whose arms didn’t even work right. Dazai had waved him off with a dismissive, bandage-clad hand and told Chuuya he was one to talk, he didn’t even fight with his arms most of the time, and Chuuya had punched him to prove a point. 

“She’s much less scary that Yosano-sensei,” Dazai pointed out as they walked to the hospital wing. 

“Isn’t she the one with the massive fuck-off meat cleaver?” Chuuya asked, his hands in his pockets. Dazai made an assenting noise. “I’m very glad her ability doesn’t work on me, chibi,” he said seriously, and Chuuya was intrigued enough to let the “chibi” insult slide. “What do you mean?” he asked, and the other man shrugged. “She has a very unorthodox bedside manner,” he said, which meant nothing at all to Chuuya. 

“Shithead,” Chuuya muttered, and Dazai started whistling a jaunty tune. At the hospital wing, the nurse fussed over Dazai’s arm and said a lot of things in English that Chuuya didn’t understand but pretty much got the meaning off, with all the finger waggling. Dazai slid his dark eyes to Chuuya pleadingly, and he only smirked. “It’s what you get for trying to commit suicide via giant squid,” he said, crossing his arms, and Dazai huffed.  _ Huffed _ at him, of all things. Chuuya couldn’t help but laugh.

A wicked gleam entered those eyes of his, and Dazai slid bonelessly off of the cot he was sitting on to get into a kneeling position at the nurse’s feet. Chuuya didn’t know exactly what he said next, but he caught the words “double suicide” and knew immediately what the idiot was asking for. The woman got all red in the face and shooed them both out of the hospital wing, though whether it was in embarrassment or anger or both, he couldn’t tell. 

“And that, chibi, is how you get women to stop yelling at you,” Dazai said. Despite himself, Chuuya laughed. They were walking back to their rooms when Chuuya saw two redheaded boys, identical to each other. 

“What’s with all the redheads?” Dazai grumbled, and Chuuya shot him a glance. He knew that tone of voice. Sure enough, there was a calculating look on the bandage-wasting-machine’s face. “What,” Chuuya said flatly, and Dazai muttered a few sentences to him. 

“Eh? Why?”

Dazai muttered some more. 

Chuuya shrugged. “Fine,” he said, and activated For the Tainted Sorrow. The sound of the ability’s activation was a low, incredibly off putting hum. Instead of walking around the two boys, whose heads were together as they discussed something, Chuuya walked onto the wall to avoid them. They didn’t seem to notice for a moment, but then their heads snapped up, eyes widening. Chuuya walked a few steps to distance himself before getting back onto the ground and deactivating his ability. Dazai jogged to catch up with him. “Now just do that whenever you see them, but never when anyone else is around,” Dazai whispered, and Chuuya snorted. “You may have left the mafia, Dazai, but you’re still a piece of shit.”

Dazai smiled, as if Chuuya had just paid him the highest compliment, before something in his expression darkened. “What is it?” Chuuya said, and Dazai rounded a corner. A few minutes of walking led them to a secluded alcove that he had no idea how Dazai had managed to find. 

Dazai leaned against the wall, and again, Chuuya felt, more than saw, the switch flip. 

“We’re being sent on a mission tomorrow,” he said quietly. 

“Finally,” said Chuuya, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the problem with that?”

“It means we’re leaving Hogwarts. The wards on this place...they keep out ability users, you know.”

“That’s odd.”

“It is.” Dazai tilted his head. “Why would our client need to keep out ability users?”

“We’re dangerous,” Chuuya pointed out. “Very dangerous, and this place is supposed to be a secret.”

Dazai nodded, his sharks’ eyes half lidded. “But this is Britain, Chuuya. This is territory that belongs to the Order of the Clock Tower.”

“They were involved with the Shibusawa incident,” Chuuya remembered finally. He’d been puzzling over why being in this country was making him antsy since the Boss had given him this mission, but he hadn’t figured it out until now. “They were going to bomb Yokohama until nothing was left.”

“Exactly,” Dazai said. “The wards on this place tell me that our client doesn’t have a working relationship with the Clock Tower, and they’re an organization with considerable firepower. What is the client’s contingency plan if we go rogue?”

“He’s got his own Order, doesn’t he?”

Dazai laughed. It was dark and it was cold, and it brought back memories of being fifteen and played like a fiddle, with a poisoned knife in his gut and Dazai’s cold eyes daring him to make the only choice he had. 

“Chuuya,” Dazai said, his tone a velvet caress. It made him sick to hear it, and with a start, Chuuya realized he disliked this Dazai far more than the lunatic who made bets and asked women to commit double suicide with. 

“Do you really think he could stop us?” he asked, with the utter surety of a man who knew the answer.

Chuuya exhaled sharply. “No,” he admitted. “Nobody can, not when we were fifteen, and not now.”

Dazai nodded again. “The Clock Tower knows that,” he said. “Our  _ client _ knows that, and yet he brought foreign ability users to this country. If you were the leader of an underground organization, how would you react?”

“Violently.”

Dazai hummed in agreement. “Exactly. They haven’t made a move yet, but they will. We have to be ready for it.”

“I miss Yokohama,” Chuuya found himself saying for the second time, and Dazai’s mouth twisted into a frown. It was the most expression he had made since leaving the twin redheads behind, and Chuuya was disgustingly grateful for it. 

“I have a feeling,” he said quietly, “that Yokohama wouldn’t be any better.”

Chuuya cracked a grin. “Yeah, you’re not wrong.” He glanced out of the alcove. “Oi, shitty Dazai,” he said then, narrowing his eyes. “Since when do we have stalkers?”

Dazai leaned over him, bracing himself by putting his hand on Chuuya’s face. “Hey—” he squawked, flailing, because Dazai’s stupid bandages had gotten into his mouth and he was choking on the taste of linen and antiseptic. He distantly heard Dazai say something in English but he was far more preoccupied with getting Dazai’s goddamn hand off and the cloth  _ out of his mouth before he choked on them _ . Finally, with a lot of arm waving and spitting, Chuuya bit down on the bandages and wrenched his head to the side, flinging Dazai’s arm away. “You bastard,” he hissed, his ability activating on instinct. “What the  _ hell— _ ” 

“Not in front of the chibis, chibi,” Dazai said, and Chuuya turned to see the three kids hovering outside of the alcove with sheepish expressions. Well, the redhead looked sheepish. The other boy looked about as brooding as Akutagawa on his off days and the girl, Hermione, had a determined set to her jaw. 

“What’re you doing here,” Chuuya said suspiciously in French, and Hermione crossed her arms. She looked ridiculously precocious, Chuuya thought. Like a mini deputy headmistress. “We know you’re ability users,” she said haughtily, “and we want to know why Dumbledore brought you here.”

“Hatrack, what’s she saying,” Dazai muttered, and Chuuya let out a tch of annoyance. “You’ve been speaking English this whole time, I don’t see why I have to translate for you  _ now _ ,” he muttered back, then glanced at Hermione. “Why not ask the headmaster?” he asked, dodging the question. 

“He’s otherwise occupied.”

“Well,  _ I’m  _ otherwise occupied beating this asshole’s face in. Get lost, kid,” Chuuya snapped, the taste of antiseptic not going away. God, he needed a drink. Or several. This place was starting to get to him. First the headmaster’s schemes, then Dazai’s, and apparently an entire underground society of trigger-happy ability users. He didn’t have time for curious students badgering him for answers that weren’t any of their business and  _ his mouth still tasted like fucking rubbing alcohol, what the hell _ .

Hermione scoffed. “ _La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure,_ ” she shot back, and Chuuya winced. He hadn’t heard that particular French saying in a very long time, but he remembered using it. To have it used on him was...uncomfortable. 

“Look,” he said, sighing. “Ask your headmaster. I’m not sure what I’m allowed to tell you. He’s the client, anyway.”

Hermione’s mouth thinned, and she asked something in English to Dazai, who looked surprised to be addressed. Jeez, next time he saw Batman, he was going to ask him for a translation spell because this was seriously getting on his nerves. 

Whatever Dazai said to her must have appeased her, because she nodded once and turned on her heel, leading her entourage away. 

“She figured it out,” Chuuya said to Dazai. 

“I’d guessed,” Dazai said dryly. “I told her we’d answer her questions at some other time.”

“And if the client doesn’t want us sharing information?” Chuuya asked, eyes narrowed. Dazai shrugged. “It’s so boring to follow the rules, slug,” he chirped, and flounced out of the alcove like nothing had occurred and Chuuya’s mouth didn’t still taste like his shitty bandages. “Bastard,” he yelled, and was pointedly ignored. He decided then that he was going to go back to his room, chug an entire bottle of his travel wine stash, and get shitfaced drunk. Maybe more alcohol would wash out the taste of Dazai’s linen and antiseptics.

[It is four in the afternoon. Chuuya is, indeed, shitfaced drunk after two and a half glasses of wine. He is a filthy lightweight and criminally aware of this, so before he starts to completely lose it, he staggers over to Dazai’s room to lay on the stone floor and stare at the ceiling. “I hate you,” he says, and nobody replies because he is alone in Dazai’s room.]

Later, after Dazai got out of the shower after a long day of trolling the Golden Trio, he saw Chuuya lying on his bed—passed out. “If you drank more milk and less wine, maybe you wouldn’t be so short,” he mutters, before going to Chuuya's room and grabbing a blanket. He opens it up and tosses it onto Chuuya’s prone form. “Hatrack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chuuya, canonically, is not the best at acting--which I got from a translation somewhere on Youtube of a conversation between him, Akutagawa, and...Kajii, I think? Yeah. Also, as much as Chuuya probably should have curbstomped Flitwick, I honestly love him too much for that. Besides, we've actually never seen Chuuya fight nonlethally, and I figure it cramps his style enough that Flitwick gets a chance to be a badass. Don't worry, when he's fighting Death Eaters, it's gonna be like that one manga panel when he's got that box of bullets and goes absolutely nuts with them. 
> 
> Translation of Chuuya's convo with Hermione:  
> Chuuya: I don't speak English.  
> Hermione: Ah, but I speak French!
> 
> And "La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure" means "the reasoning of the stronger is always the best". It's what you say sarcastically to someone in a position of power who's bullshitting you, like "Wowee you're the one in charge so I guess you're right". 
> 
> Also, there will be a sequel. It's in the brainstorming stages since I'm still finishing this one up :p


	5. Difficulties

#  **Chapter Five: Difficulties**

“What frightened me was the logic of the world; in it lay the foretaste of something incalculably powerful...Though outside lay the sea of irrationality, it was far more agreeable to swim in its waters until presently I drowned.”

_ No Longer Human _ by Osamu Dazai

[It is a Saturday when Chuuya Nakahara gets drunk at four in the afternoon. This same Saturday, Hermione, Harry, and Ron each run into Dazai once. The first of these encounters is when Harry is walking by himself to the Great Hall for lunch, Hermione and Ron having snuck off somewhere to scheme by themselves. He hears a noise in an abandoned classroom.]

The noise was an odd one, like that of a person shuffling around. Harry had an idea of what someone would be doing in an abandoned classroom, and he didn’t really want to walk in on two people snogging. He was about to keep walking when someone started coughing from inside, and the little bit of him that was still curious about odd things and mysteries in a magical castle made him push the door open. 

Inside was that bandaged independent contractor, sitting at a desk in his dramatic brown trench coat. His name was Dazai, Harry remembered, and he spoke English, unlike the short one with the fancy hat. “Hullo,” Harry said cautiously, as the man hacked and coughed. He walked closer, looking at the desk. There was a strange green powder on it, separated into thin lines. 

“Are you...snorting Floo Powder?” Harry asked, utterly incredulous, and the man looked up at him with baleful amber eyes. “Is  _ that  _ what this is called?” he asked, sneezing once. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “You put it in a fireplace and then you step into the fire.”

Dazai goggled at him. “Is that how you wizards commit suicide? It sounds rather painful.”

“What—no, you can’t feel the flames, and it transports you to another fireplace,” Harry hastened to reassure the man, who was twirling a plastic card in his right hand. He carefully swept the powder to form a smaller line and bent his head towards it. “You shouldn’t be doing that,” Harry said. He wished Hermione were here. She would somehow make sense of this situation. 

Wait, no. He was in an abandoned classroom with Dumbledore’s independent contractor watching him snort Floo Powder and discussing suicide.

On second thought, he was glad she wasn’t here.

“Why not?” Dazai asked suspiciously. 

“It’s  _ magic  _ powder,” Harry stressed. “It’ll do weird things to your nose and then you’ll have to go to the hospital wing and have Madam Pomfrey poke around in your nose.”

Dazai wrinkled said nose. “That sounds less fun,” he muttered. “But the magic won’t do anything to me.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “How are you so sure?” he asked, crossing his arms, and Dazai smiled at him. Harry suddenly felt a bit like an insect pinned into place, but the feeling was gone as soon as it had appeared. The man just had a very odd smile, that’s all, the sort of wry grin that Sirius had been so good at making. The thought made him sad, but the man opened his mouth and what he said shook him out of it quickly. 

“Magic doesn’t work on me.”

“What, at  _ all _ ?” Harry asked, gobsmacked, and Dazai laughed. “Try sending a spell at me,” he said, brown eyes intent and Floo Powder forgotten. 

“I could hurt you,” Harry argued, and Dazai laughed again. “You couldn’t,” he said, with utter surety and confidence. That was the kind of self-possession that Harry wished he was capable of. Slowly, he drew out his wand and cast the first thing that came to mind. “Expelliarmus,” he said, and the bolt of red light flew out of the wand tip and hit Dazai in the chest. It dissipated into blue sparks and Dazai twirled the plastic card again. “What was that supposed to do?” he asked. 

“It’s a disarming spell,” Harry said, staring at his wand. “Expelliarmus.”

The plastic card remained in Dazai’s hand, and the man grinned. “See,” he said, and snapped his black-gloved fingers, a blue ribbon of light twining through them. “It’s my ability,  _ No Longer Human _ . I can’t turn it off and it nullifies any magic that touches me.”

“Wicked,” Harry breathed. “Wait, so you can’t be hit by any spell? Like, at all?”

Dazai shook his head. “I’m also banned from touching things with inherent magic. Like the wards, the staircases...all that. I was forced to wear gloves.” He eyed his hands with disgust. “They chafe. I don’t know how the hatrack does it all the time.”

“You mean...Nakahara?”

Dazai sniffed. “Exactly, the hatrack.”

“I wonder what would happen if you touched a ghost,” Harry mused, and Dazai’s face got a very peculiar expression. “Ghosts aren’t real,” he said, and Harry had no way of knowing he was remembering a reanimated corpse, a scythe, and a burning line that crossed his torso. But Harry shrugged. “I thought that too,” he said, “But you meet them at the sorting. There’s a bunch at Hogwarts, haven’t you seen them?”

Dazai shook his head. “Maybe they’re avoiding me,” he murmured, before he smiled again. “I have enough ghosts of my own, anyway.” He glanced back at Harry, who was still trying to puzzle out what he meant. 

“Does that mean you’re a muggleborn?” he asked. 

“A  _ what _ ?”

Harry felt his face flushing. “Sorry, I forgot you’re not from here. You know, you’re the first wizard in your family and all? Your parents are nonmagical? Everyone born into a wizarding family knows about ghosts.”

Dazai shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, saying nothing at all with that one word. “My parents are dead, so I can’t ask them.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Mine are too,” he muttered. “All anyone says is that I look like my father and that I have my mother’s eyes.” He didn’t know why he was saying these things to a stranger, much less one who he caught doing strange things with what was probably the headmaster’s Floo Powder. But something inside him yearned for conversation with someone who didn’t know anything about him, someone who didn’t have expectations or who wanted to put the whole weight of the world on his shoulders. It was so tiring to be Harry Potter. 

Dazai regarded him, gaze distant. “Don’t really remember what they looked like,” he said, smiling faintly. “It’s all a bit of a blur.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurted out, and Dazai laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, before sighing. “I might have to go to the hospital wing to get my arm looked at again. It’s making weird noises.”

“What did you do to it?”

“I fought the giant squid. Or, rather, it dislocated my arm and threw me out of the lake,” he said peacefully, and Harry had thought this man couldn’t get any stranger. “You  _ what _ ?”

Dazai snorted. “Keep up,” he said, leaning his head into his hand. “Stupid squid didn’t let me finish my submersion and now I have a funny arm.”

“I...submersion?” Harry quickly decided there was far too much to unpack there, and instead said the first thing to come to mind. I hate the hospital wing,” Harry confided, and Dazai looked at him, really looked at him, for perhaps the first time in their entire surreal conversation. “Harry Potter, right?” he said, those amber eyes intent. 

“That’s me,” Harry said, dreading the moment when he would ask more, maybe even ask about Sirius, and open that wound up all over again.

“You’d be well acquainted with the hospital wing, then,” was all Dazai said, and Harry laughed despite himself. “They should put my name on a plaque above one of the beds,” he sighed. 

“The nurse—is she always like that?” 

Harry let out a long, theatrical groan. “Unfortunately. But she’s one of the best healers, apparently, and she’s always fixed me up.”

Dazai made a noncommittal sound before brushing all the Floo Powder off his desk in one swift motion. He stood up, tucked his hands in his pockets, and smiled at Harry. “See you around,” he said, and left the room. 

The abruptness of his departure left Harry feeling oddly empty, like he’d lifted his foot on a staircase before realizing there wasn’t another step left. What a strange man, he reflected, without realizing that this was the first real conversation he’d had with an adult since Sirius had...yeah. He probably should tell Hermione, who was foaming at the mouth for more information on those two, but he found himself sitting at the desk Dazai had vacated and propping his chin on his hand. He stared out into the darkened, dusty classroom, feeling utterly  _ present  _ for once. 

[Later, after his shower and sitting on the other side of his bed, Dazai speaks to an unconscious Chuuya. “He’s older than we were,” he says softly, so as not to wake him. “But much less capable. You could beat him easily. Is this really the kid our client’s hopes and dreams rest on?” To Dazai’s annoyance, Chuuya doesn’t answer.]

Dazai’s encounters with the flanking members of the Golden Trio were no less memorable. With his impulse control out of commission and currently drinking himself sick like the alcoholic he was, Dazai was left free to roam the castle and cause havoc. Hermione was utterly unaware of this and ended up running into him, because Hermione’s luck was trash that day and Dazai was a scheming bastard. 

The first of his stops was the moving staircase he had broken the first few days at Hogwarts. He poked at it, as if willing it to move. The only person to notice this was Hermione, carrying a stack of books in her arms that nearly brushed the top of her head. “The staircase is broken,” she sniffed, coming closer with the tottering pile. Her frizzy curls seemed even frizzier than usual, and she’d spent a whole half hour that morning wrestling it into a bun. The hair tie had snapped sometime after breakfast and she’d resigned herself to walking around looking like a bush for the rest of that day. The books were all on eastern magic and the ability user phenomenon, which, curiously, was a topic that the Hogwarts library was rather lacking in. She’d have thought that if there was information anywhere, it would be in the library. 

When she saw Dazai, poking at the staircase like a curious cat, she came over in hopes of interrogating him. Subtly, of course, the way Ron had suggested over lunch. She could do subtle. Harry was bad at subtle and Ron wouldn’t know subtle if it bit him in the rear, but she liked to think she was less bullheaded than her two best friends. 

The bandaged man—and wasn’t that odd, how he wore so many bandages—glanced over at her. “Well, yes,” he said, in the tone of someone who had figured that out long ago and was wondering why she was pointing out the obvious. “I broke it.”

Hermione let out an affronted gasp. “How could you have broken a staircase?” she asked sharply. “Their magic is tied to the castle itself, there’s no way the headmaster would have let you look at the wards.”

Dazai leaned against the staircase. “I’m very good at, what do you call it? Counterspells?”

Hermione gritted her teeth in annoyance. “A counterspell wouldn’t have  _ worked _ , not on the moving staircases. You’d have to be, I don’t know,  _ the headmaster  _ to have a counterspell that powerful.”

“And why should I be listening to an angry hedgehog?” Dazai asked, eyeing her. Her hand flew to her hair, nervously patting it down. “Rude,” she hissed. 

Dazai smirked. “I’ll prove it to you, hedgehog,” he said, making a gesture as if telling her to follow him. She huffed at the nickname but followed him anyway, out of sheer curiosity and possibly spite because she wanted to see him fail. “This better not be you breaking another staircase,” she muttered, and Dazai didn’t even do her the courtesy of replying. Instead, he led her up several stairs to the entrance of her own common room. 

“What do you want to bet?” Dazai asked, his hands in the pockets of his ridiculously out of fashion trench coat. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, arms tired from carrying all her books and her annoyance steadily rising. “Gambling is illegal,” she pointed out, and this, of all things, got Dazai to laugh. She hadn’t even made a joke, so she suspected she’d referenced something Dazai knew that she didn’t, and that rankled. “Fine,” she said, dropping her books to the ground. “I’ll bet you a galleon you can’t show off a counterspell good enough to disable a moving staircase to the point where the headmaster couldn’t even fix it.”

Dazai looked blankly at her. “Galleon?” he asked. 

“Wizarding currency,” she said, squinting at him. “I’m pretty sure Japan uses them too, how do you not know what those are?”

Dazai shrugged and turned to the painting of the Fat Lady. He glanced over his shoulder at Hermione. “Ready, hedgehog?” he said, flashing her a grin. 

She huffed. “As I’ll ever be,” she shot back, and Dazai turned around. “You are as beautiful as the sun setting over snow-capped mountains,” he said seriously, and the Fat Lady turned a bright red. “Well, I—”

“Would you do the honor of committing a double suicide with me?”

The Fat Lady only goggled at him, before giggling. “I wouldn’t say no to a lad as fine as yourself,” she said dreamily, and Hermione saw Dazai startle. “You would be the first woman to ever take me up on my offer,” he said, surprised, before tugging off one of his gloves. “Wake from this oxidizing world of a dream, my love,” he murmured, and caressed her face with a pale hand.  _ “Ningen shikkaku.”  _ Bright blue bands of light and kanji shot out from his fingers as he touched the portrait, and Fat Lady grew ominously still, her face still flushed and smiling. 

Dazai turned to Hermione, whose face was caught between awe and horror. “You’ve killed the Fat Lady,” she whispered. 

“That seems like a rather rude name,” Dazai said, raising an eyebrow, and Hermione stared, open-mouthed, as he began to walk away. “See you around, hedgehog,” he called. “Bring that galleon next time you come to interrogate me!”

_ What the hell _ , was Hermione’s first thought. Her second:  _ Who’s going to tell Professor McGonagall? _

[Dazai leans back, still addressing Chuuya’s prone form. “The girl is almost as fun to provoke as you are,” he says. “She’s smart, but limited.”]

Ron ended up encountering Dazai at Hagrid’s hut, of all places. He was taking a walk by himself, feeling inexplicably lonely even though he was alone because he’d wanted to be, and decided he might as well go greet him. It was sunny outside, despite it being late afternoon, and Ron wanted to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin for as long as possible. Out here, he could pretend his best friend wasn’t a danger magnet and that they were all going to have to fight for their lives,  _ again _ , sometime soon. 

He scratched at his arms. There were scars from the brains in the Department of Mysteries twining up his forearms, imprints of their thought-tentacles.  _ Thoughts can leave deep scars, my arse _ , Ron thought uncharitably, and studied them. He’d spent a lot of nights just looking at them until he’d memorized every raised indentation, every swirl of scar tissue. He was glad the long Hogwarts robes covered them. They were very strange looking, and would probably invite questions he didn’t want to answer at all. 

The suffocating feeling of drowning in thoughts that weren’t his still haunted his dreams sometimes. 

Ron shook his head, trying to focus on the sunlight and crisp breeze rather than the memory of what his idiocy had done. God, he couldn’t even take a walk without falling apart. What would Bill say? 

He let his sleeves fall back down to cover the scars and kept walking. He was nearly to Hagrid’s hut. When he came to the door, hands in his pockets and feeling slightly more alive, he realized there was noise coming from inside. Not the noise of Hagrid puttering around or of Fang scratching at things, either. Conversation. Laughter. 

He turned away, figuring Hagrid was busy with a guest and it would be rude to bother him, when he heard Fang bark. The door opened a second later, Hagrid’s enormous frame filling the doorway. “Ron!” he said boisterously. His cheeks were flushed bright red. “Come on in, stop yer dawdling.” He grabbed Ron by the collar and hauled him inside. 

Ron surveyed the room. It was all as it usually was, with Fang sitting happily in the corner and drooling over his dog bed. But Hagrid’s table had someone sitting at it. 

The independent contractor with shaggy brown hair was perched in one of Hagrid’s chairs, sipping from a glass full of amber liquid. “Is that...Firewhisky?” Ron asked. 

The man turned to look at him and swirled his glass. His own cheeks were faintly red. “No,” he said, with a perfectly straight face. “It’s orange juice.”

“Ah,” Ron said weakly. “Hagrid, are you sure I should be here? If you have guests and all.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hagrid said, clapping him on the back so hard he stumbled and nearly fell into the table. He dragged a chair out and sat in it, cautiously. Hagrid beamed at him. “This is my new friend, Dazai,” he said, resting one enormous hand on the contractor’s shoulder. “He’s interested in magical creatures!”

Ron leaned forward, suddenly interested. Hagrid loved anyone he could talk at about his most dangerous “pets”. 

Hagrid said then, addressing Dazai, “This ‘ere’s Ron. He’s one of my best students in Care of Magical Creatures! Even if he’s not continuing to NEWTS level. Very busy, ‘e is.”

Ron flushed, despite himself. It was always nice to hear praise, even if all it meant was that Ron stayed out of the way of the more violent creatures and actually did his homework. “Thanks, Hagrid,” he said awkwardly. He watched as Dazai regarded him with eyes the same color as the Firewhisky in his hand. He looked tired, of all things, though Ron couldn’t tell if he was tired of being here and drinking with Hagrid or of something else. Maybe he just hadn’t slept well. 

“Oh, tell ‘im about the tentacle creature,” Hagrid urged, plopping into a chair of his own. The entire house shook with the force of it, but Ron was used to Hagrid making aggressively large movements and causing mini-earthquakes. 

Dazai swirled his glass again and took a sip. “It’s not like he was native to Japan, Hagrid,” he said. “He was unique.”

“‘He’?” Ron asked, and Dazai smirked. “I knew a man who could turn his arms into tentacles and then his entire body into an eldritch abomination. He called himself Lovecraft. Very difficult to put down.”

“You  _ killed  _ him?” 

Dazai took another sip. “I don’t think so,” he said, gaze far away, before his head snapped around to stare Ron down. He shuffled his chair closer, invading Ron’s personal space, with a thoughtful expression. He reached out a bandaged hand and poked at Ron’s cheek, then tugged on a lock of his hair. “Hey!” Ron snapped, reeling back. 

“Are you related to the slug?” Dazai said suspiciously, peering at his face. “Same traffic-cone hair, same color eyes. Except you’re British. Do you have cousins?”

Ron stammered, caught entirely off-guard. “I…yes? Some?”

“Any in Japan?” Dazai asked, tugging at his sleeve. 

“No?” Ron, still confused, inadvertently let Dazai draw his arm up and raise the sleeve. The scars from the brains glinted in the low light of Hagrid’s cabin and he came back to himself, yanking his arm away and tugging the sleeve down defensively. “Bloody hell, mate, don’t just start poking at me like that!”

Dazai leaned back in his chair, thankfully letting Ron breathe. He took a gulp of his “orange juice” and regarded him. Hagrid was distracted, petting Fang, who was slobbering all over the floor by now. “You’re wondering why I’m drinking with Hagrid,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. 

“Yeah, I ‘spose,” Ron grumbled. 

Dazai seemed to perk up, then, jumping to his feet. “I’m afraid my days are numbered,” he said dramatically, swooning. “As soon as Neko-sensei catches me, I will be dead, alongside my lady love!”

“...Neko-sensei?”

“Your professor,” Dazai said, tumbling back into his chair in a whirl of white bandages and trench coat. “The scary one with the bun. I am afraid she wants me dead.”

“You mean...Professor McGonagall?”

Dazai flapped a hand at him before taking another gulp of his drink. “It’s a tragedy,” he moaned. “I wanted to commit double suicide with the portrait of the beautiful woman in the tower, but my own attempts to jump to my death were foiled! By Neko-sensei herself!”

Ron had apparently looked so confused that Hagrid took pity on him, and said in a stage whisper, “He killed the Fat Lady and tried to jump off the Astronomy tower. Professor McGonagall stopped ‘im but before she could, er, reprimand ‘im, ‘e slunk off. I, eh, found ‘im hiding in my pumpkin patch an hour ago.”

“You killed the Fat Lady?” Ron had long since passed disbelief and was firmly in a state of confusion. Dazai only nodded, closing his eyes dramatically. “The only beautiful woman to ever want to commit double suicide with me, and I am unable to follow her!” he declared, before slumping onto the table in defeat. Ron could only watch as Hagrid lumbered over and gently patted him on the back. “There, there,” Hagrid said cheerfully. “I’m sure she’ll be fixed soon, and then you can, er, do yer double suicide, yeah?”

Dazai popped back up with comical speed to stare at Hagrid, stars in his eyes. “They can fix her?” he breathed, and Hagrid laughed. “Sure they can! She’s been through worse than an accidental deactivation. Why, in my day,” he said, and segued into a story of the Fat Lady allegedly being stolen from the porthole of Gryffindor Tower. Ron only sat in his chair, wondering where they would sleep. And what about the people inside the common room when Dazai had... _ killed _ ...the Fat Lady? Could they even leave? Would they starve?

They can leave, Ron reassured himself, just, as soon as the door closed, nobody could get in. 

“Oi, Dazai,” he said, interrupting Hagrid’s tale briefly. “What does Neko-sensei mean?”

Dazai turned his head a fraction. “Cat-teacher,” he said promptly, and the accuracy of that title, and the sheer surrealism of the conversation, finally broke through to Ron. He put his face in his hands and began to laugh. “What the  _ hell _ ,” he said, between gasps. 

He stayed at Hagrid’s hut as the sun set, watching as Hagrid and Dazai got progressively drunker. Hagrid busted out the pink umbrella and tried to cast first-year spells with it, which Ron  _ knew  _ was super illegal on multiple levels, but he was too entertained to bring himself to care. Besides, whatever strange effects Hagrid managed to create, Dazai immediately reversed somehow. Hagrid turned Fang’s black fur to a polka-dot pattern, and when he couldn’t figure out how to turn the whimpering dog back, Dazai simply gave him a pat and Fang was normal again. 

At some point, Hagrid ended up conjuring magical flames and nearly burned his table, but a single wave of Dazai’s hand through the licking flame—at which Ron had started, thinking he was going to burn himself—put out the flame entirely. Ron hadn’t had to lift his wand at all, despite knowing how to cast a basic Aguamenti. 

Dazai, when drunk, was evidently even more peculiar than he was sober. He regaled Hagrid with a tale of how he’d eaten a mushroom, thinking it was poisonous and would kill him. Evidently, it was the wrong mushroom and gave him vivid hallucinations instead. “Kunikida beat me up for it,” he said, almost nostalgically. 

“Who’s Kunikida?” Ron interjected, and Dazai’s face twisted into an evil grin. “My work partner!” he said cheerfully. “He’s very uptight. He has all these schedules written into his notebook down to the  _ second _ , can you believe it?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, thinking of Hermione’s study schedules. 

“He’s also never going to woo a woman, ever,” Dazai said, taking a gulp of his drink. “He has 58 requirements for a partner.  _ 58 _ .”

Ron laughed. “He sounds like a riot,” he said, and Dazai smirked at him. “So easy to provoke,” he said dreamily, and drained his glass. 

With a start, Ron realized it was nearly curfew. “I should head back,” he said reluctantly, and Hagrid checked the clock. “Wouldn’t want ta make Neko-sensei mad,” he agreed, and Ron laughed again, picturing McGonagall’s expression when she learned even one of the teachers was calling her that. But before he could get up to leave, there was an almighty crash from outside. 

“Oh no,” said Dazai, shrinking into his chair with a disgusted expression on his face. 

“What—” Ron started to say, but then Hagrid’s door flew open with a bang. Standing there, his foot outstretched and face livid, stood the other independent contractor. The one that Dazai called “slug” and Hermione was always talking to in French, who Ron apparently looked like. 

“Dazai!” he roared, and grabbed the man by his coat and began tugging him away. “Sorry,” Dazai mouthed at Hagrid, who watched, bemused, as he was dragged out the door. He and Ron exchanged looks and silently agreed not to make a fuss. He helped Hagrid clean up the small room before he said his goodbyes and began the trek up to the castle. In the distance, he could see the tall forms of the two contractors and make out muffled yelling in Japanese. 

“Bloody crazy,” he muttered, resigning himself to searching for McGonagall to ask about the Fat Lady incident. 

[Chuuya is still dragging Dazai along, because he refuses to stand up and walk like a normal human being.]

“I leave you alone for half a day, and then I wake up to an angry Scottish woman screaming at me in English! Then she somehow magically learns Japanese only to tell me you killed a portrait! What the  _ hell,  _ shitty Dazai?” he ranted, stomping through the dew-wet grass.

Dazai tried to shrug, but it’s made difficult from his position of being dragged both literally and figuratively. “It was for a bet, chibi,” he said sulkily, as if that justified anything. 

“Shut up,” Chuuya growled, and hauled him to the castle doors and into the hall. He glanced around, making sure they were alone, before making straight for the broken staircase. “If you make a noise, she’ll find us,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to turn me in, slug-chan?” Dazai asked, his voice petulant. Chuuya’s hackles were up immediately at the even  _ worse  _ nickname, but he took a breath. “She wasn’t pleased with me being drunk at a school,” he muttered, “and she took my wine.”

Dazai has the absolute gall to laugh at him when he was obviously at least tipsy. “Poor little Chuuya Nakahara, an alcoholic without his alcohol,” he sing-songed, and Chuuya threw him into his room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter, but this fic was starting to be more "seriousness taken seriously" rather than crack taken seriously. So, here! Have some good old manipulative/troll Dazai. He's so hard to write and keep in character, gosh. The Fat Lady scene was not supposed to be that dramatic, I swear, but Dark Era Dazai just kinda appeared and I ran with it.
> 
> Yeah, this chapter was going to be published tomorrow, but I try to make sure I have half of my fic published at a time in comparison to what's been written. I finished #10 last night (er, more like this morning, but very early). Do you guys like the quick updates? If it's annoying to have this updated every few days, I can do every week. Please lemme know, this is the first time a fic of mine has been consistently updated and written, and I'm really used to uploading every few months.


	6. Theft

#  **Chapter Six: Theft**

“It would be nothing short of folly to trace your way home by the same path along which you came...and there is much to be gained from heading in your homeward direction by a totally new path.”

_ River Mist and Other Stories _ by Doppo Kunikida

[Severus Snape sits in the headmaster’s office, his head in his hands. Albus looks at him, compassionate but amused despite himself. Minerva hovers in the doorway, her arms crossed and her mouth pinched into a thin line. It is the next morning, but the sunshine from the day before is notably absent. It feels like an omen, especially since Chuuya and Dazai are to leave for their mission in an hour. 

“Albus,  _ why _ ,” Severus moaned into his hands. He could feel his grip on sanity loosening and that wasn’t usually something that happens until at  _ least  _ the second week of term. Minerva looked to be about in a similar state, though she wasn’t quite in despair yet and had both feet firmly planted in “righteous anger”. 

“I would like to know as well,” she said sharply. “I was not informed before you brought two foreign wizards into the school and I find that, as your Deputy Headmistress, this should be something I am consulted on.” 

Scratch that, no pun intended, Severus thought. She was furious. 

“Minerva,” Albus said, his tone placating. “You were busy for the last few days, so I thought this could wait until I called a staff meeting.”

“Excuses!” she snapped, and Albus flinched.  _ Good _ , Severus thought vindictively.  _ Let him suffer.  _

“The children are calling me ‘neko-sensei’,” she hissed, stalking forward until she was standing next to Severus. “What does that even mean?” 

“Cat-teacher,” Severus muttered, the last vestiges of the translation spell still lingering in his system. He quickly regretted opening his mouth at all when her eyes flashed and she took in a deep breath. “Albus,” she said, deathly calm, “explain yourself.”

And he did, telling her everything he had told Severus, with a few omitted details that Severus was not going to clarify unless threatened at wand-point. Such as the strange encounter with Ranpo, discussing what Severus now knew to be Voldemort’s horcruxes, and Albus definitely downplayed the peculiarities of the Armed Detective Agency’s members.

“You should have brought me,” Minerva said finally, her rigid posture relaxing slightly. 

“I wish he had,” Severus grumbled, and Albus shot him a quelling look before locking eyes with Minerva. “Yokohama is not the sort of place you’d like to be,” he said, and that was apparently the entirely wrong thing to say because she immediately stiffened again. “It’s not about what I’d like,” she said, not incorrectly. “It’s about keeping me informed because I’m your  _ Deputy _ , Albus.” She sounded almost hurt. “I’ve been your Deputy for years. Don’t you trust me?”

Albus sighed. “It’s not that, Minerva. I do trust you. But I needed Severus for the trip to Yokohama, and you know that.”

Instead of contesting this, like Severus had expected, Minerva gritted her teeth and nodded, visibly deflating. “Yes,” she admitted, and dropped into the chair beside him. “They’re a headache,” she said then, but she was less angry or hurt and more resigned. 

“Absolutely,” said Albus. “But that’s what I hired them for. If they’re this much of a headache to their allies, imagine how much of a headache they’ll be to their enemies.”

And Minerva perked up at that, her gaze suddenly intent. “You’re not saying…”

Albus nodded solemnly, and Minerva’s mouth quirked into a smile. “So we’ll allow the children another year for being children?” she asked, and Severus saw that there was something like hope in her expression. It took years off of her face, he thought absently. 

“If all goes well, it will be over within the year,” Albus said seriously, before pulling up his sleeve to show his blackened hand. “It will have to be within the year, or I will be gone and they’ll have to be recontracted.”

Severus winced at the mention of something he considered an abject failure of his. The cursed ring had destroyed the tissue of that hand, leaving it a crippled husk. The progression of the curse was only slowed by all his potions and spells and knowledge, not stopped. For all his supposed mastery, Voldemort had won that battle. The headmaster would die within a year, barely making it to his next birthday if he refrained from taxing himself overmuch. 

“There’s another reason this needs to be wrapped up,” Minerva said, and it wasn’t a question. She was staring at him, not even blinking as her fingers flexed in her lap. “Isn’t there.”

Albus heaved another sigh and rubbed at his temples. “Yes,” he admitted. “There is another reason.”

“Are you going to fill us in, Headmaster, or allow us to be strung along on secrets and promises of further disclosure at a later date?” Severus drawled, picking his head up to fix his mentor in place with a glare. He hadn’t been informed of this other reason, either, and he dreaded it. 

Albus scrutinized them, looking for something in their expressions that, evidently, he found. “The Christie incident,” he said. “What do you know of it?”

Minerva tilted her head. “The muggleborn,” she said. “Wasn’t she expelled in her sixth year? Decades ago?”

“Yes,” said Albus, blue eyes no longer twinkling. “In addition to being a witch, Agatha Christie is a very formidable ability user. She now heads her own underground organization, known as the Order of the Clock Tower.”

“This is relevant...how?” Severus said, leaning back in his chair. “They’re obviously not very active if the ministry hasn’t done anything about them.”

“You’d be surprised,” Albus replied. “I happen to know that they have extremely close ties with the British muggle government. But my point is thus: if the situation with Voldemort is not handled, or the two ability users I have hired break contract and cause wanton destruction, Agatha Christie will take matters into her own very capable hands. She will see my death as a third worst case scenario if it occurs before Voldemort is dealt with or Nakahara and Dazai are sent back to Japan.”

“And what could a woman, who is effectively a high school dropout, do to us?” Severus sneered. 

“She’s threatening total annihilation,” Albus said calmly. “Bombs dropped on major points of magical society—the ministry building, the hospital, Diagon, and here. Known magical citizens being assassinated or taken into custody. Sending task forces into known magical villages and exterminating the citizens.”

Minerva sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s madness,” she said. “She would kill her own kind! Children, the elderly, the injured! What good would that even  _ do _ ?”

Albus looked at them, his gaze solemn. “It would prevent Voldemort from mobilizing enough to expand and subjugate muggle Britain. It would prevent him from taking over the rest of the world, likely targeting ability users and nonmagicals indiscriminately.” He rose from his chair and walked toward the small window, looking out into the Scottish highlands. “I know three things about Agatha Christie. First, she is ruthless. Second, she is practical. And third…”

He smiled humorously. “She thinks fires go well with tea.”

Minerva sat back in her chair with a horrified expression as Severus pressed forward. “So we’re on more of a time limit than before,” he said. “The stakes are higher.”

Albus nodded. “There are two ways to prevent this, the true worst scenario, from occurring. Either we defeat Voldemort before I die and send Dazai and Nakahara back, or I give her a call, admit I was wrong and that I need her help, and she swoops in with her organization and does all the heavy lifting.” His voice took on a steely tone. “But I will not, as long as I live and this castle remains standing, allow her anywhere near the students. Calling her would be tantamount to sending out an invitation and putting a welcome mat at our gates.”

Both Severus and Minerva nodded. If he had been in Albus’s place, calling Christie would be the absolute last resort as well. He had seen the damage she’d wrought years ago. 

“Merlin,” he muttered, resisting the urge to go back to his quarters and nap for a week. He hadn’t even noticed that his robes were closer to a medium grey than black, too wrapped up in this thoughts and contingencies to care much. 

[Chuuya is on the train with Dazai back to London, sitting in a compartment with his feet propped up on the seat. Dazai is lounging by the window, nursing a hangover. Chuuya would also be hungover, except he is better at managing his alcohol intake than Dazai is. Chuuya is also still mourning the coat Flitwick had burned to pieces, because not even a repair spell managed to fix it. They are almost there.]

“Oi, shitty Dazai,” said Chuuya, nudging at him with his foot. “Did you get the mission details from the client?” 

It almost felt like running jobs for the Boss again, isolated as they were in the compartment with a mission ahead of them. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that they were both teenagers, on their way to rendezvous with a smuggling operation or act as an extraction team for some unlucky bastards. But Dazai was wearing the wrong coat and Chuuya could see both of his eyes. Even if Dazai hadn’t actually changed much between then and now, there was something different in his face. He looked more alive, despite the hangover. 

Dazai groaned into the window, shattering any illusion of peace. “My head hurts,” he whined, and Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you drink any water?”

“Nooooooo.”

“You’re a moron.”

“Speak for yourself, slug,” Dazai muttered, before sighing. “Yes, I got the mission details. We’re retrieving an unknown artifact from a bank vault. The vault in question belongs to a woman named Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“That’s an awful name,” Chuuya muttered, and the side of Dazai’s mouth quirked up into a grin. 

“The artifact is magical, so probably I’ll just touch everything in the vault. Maybe I can drown myself in coins…?” Dazai’s expression turned into a thoughtful frown, and Chuuya scoffed. “Don’t commit suicide in the middle of a  _ job _ , shithead,” he snapped, nudging at Dazai again with his foot. Dazai opened one eye to glare balefully at him. He started to say something, but before he could, the train stopped. They’d arrived, then. 

The two of them made their way out of their compartment, trying not to bump into people. At least, Chuuya was trying not to bump into people. Dazai, like the slippery mackerel he was, weaved through the congestion without any difficulty. “The client said we have to find a bar called the ‘Leaky Cauldron’,” he said primly, walking side by side with Chuuya out of the station. 

“Tch.”

A twenty minute walk, an encounter with an overly cheerful barman, and a strange magic wall that Chuuya had forcibly prevented Dazai from touching bare handed later, and they were in Diagon Alley. The sheer number of shops and curiously dressed wizards combined to form a riotous explosion of color and noise that made Chuuya wince. “Do you know where the bank is?” he muttered. 

“Nope!” Dazai chirped, and promptly turned to a witch in bright green robes and a child at her side. He said something to her in English, smiling widely and wringing every ounce of charm from his stupid face. She replied and made a vague gesture forward, and Dazai nodded before turning back to Chuuya. “That way, chibi,” he said cheerfully, and began walking. 

Chuuya followed, being far too tired to contest the command and really just itching for a fight at that point. Stupid, shitty Dazai getting drunk with some random guy in a hut. 

“What did you even do yesterday, waste of bandages?” he asked, his hands in his pockets and his hat turned low to shade his face from the seemingly artificial sun. 

Dazai made a small noise before turning to look over his shoulder at him. “I talked to the three kids our client mentioned,” he said.

“Why.”

Dazai shrugged. “Client says they’ve been through a lot. Personally, I think they’re incompetent. Kyouka is two years younger than them and she could probably kill this dark lord singlehandedly.”

“Kyouka’s a serial killer,” Chuuya pointed out, and Dazai huffed. “Fine.  _ Kenji  _ could take him out. He’s the same age as her with none of the experience.”

“Wizards don’t seem to be very good at planning,” he said. “If I were him, I would’ve ordered a strike team to take out his minions one by one.”

“And that’s why you’re mafia and he isn’t, hatrack,” Dazai said, and Chuuya couldn’t disagree. Dazai flashed him a wicked grin. “Also, I was bored. You were busy getting drunk to do your job and entertain me.”

“Eh?” Chuuya growled. “You’re a traitor. I don’t have to run jobs for you anymore.”

“Did you forget the terms of our bet, Chuuya?” Dazai asked, sniffing. “You’re my dog for  _ life!” _

“I won that bet!”

Dazai only hummed, causing his hackles to raise further. God, he hated this guy. Annoying and flighty and not a shred of loyalty, the ass. By then, they had reached the bank, and the words engraved on the doors made Chuuya raise an eyebrow. “What do they say, shitty Dazai?”

Dazai examined them before starting to laugh. “Nothing important,” he said dismissively, striding through the partially opened doors into the middle of the bank’s first floor. Chuuya tried not to look too closely at the guards, who all bore more than a passing resemblance to the professor he had sparred with days prior. Hadn’t the little man said something about goblin constitution? God, wizards were weird. 

“The vaults are beneath the bank, right? How the hell are we going to get down there,” Chuuya muttered to Dazai, who flashed him a secretive grin. 

“The client didn’t say anything about being sneaky,” he said, his eyes dancing mischievously, and Chuuya’s own grin widened. 

“It’s a cave system,” Dazai continued, “stretching beneath the bank. Numerous tunnels. There is only one entrance from ground level,” he said, gesturing to the yawning hole. “So, here’s the plan.”

[It is a normal day at Gringotts Bank. Rajek, one of the tellers, is exchanging galleons to Muggle currency when two curiously dressed men walk into the bank. He doesn’t pay them any mind, because he’s not paid enough to pay them any mind. That’s the job of the gate guards and the supervisors. This is a mistake.]

Rajek looked up to see the shorter man with the fedora walk up to his window. “State your business,” he said, and a grin spread across the client’s face. It was sharp and full of teeth, and if Rajek wasn’t a goblin, used to posturing and threatening smiles, he probably would have been scared. As things stood, it was Sunday and that meant he only had a half shift. He wanted to go back hope and drink several cups of tea, not deal with stupid wizards who thought they could intimidate him.

The man didn’t answer, infuriatingly, and Rajek began to raise his head to repeat the question when he heard an unsettling humming noise. It set his teeth on edge and suddenly, he couldn’t move. He tried to look at the man, but he couldn’t move. All he saw was a reddish-orange glow. Glancing to the side, he could see that the red glow had spread to encompass the counters, the tellers, and what seemed like the whole bank. How hadn’t the numerous magical protections kicked in? They were supposed to respond to spells being cast. But then...the man hadn’t spoken a word.

“Kagar,” he gritted out, addressing the teller next to him. “Can’t move,” the other goblin said, before letting out a groan of pain as he was forced to his knees. 

Rajek, too, was forced to his knees. His jaw clicked shut uncomfortably as he knelt, his head tilted away from the wizard who  _ dared  _ attack the goblin nation. The wizard’s hands came off the counter, but the force pulling him into the ground didn’t abate. If anything, it seemed to get stronger. Rajak groaned as his bones creaked. He had no doubt that if he were human, he would be eating the cool tile of the bank floor at that moment.

The man didn’t speak, but Rajak heard the rustle of clothing. He was gesturing, perhaps? The click of shoes on tile grew louder. Someone was walking closer. Slowly, the red glow receded from the counter. Rajak could see that it only extended to the goblins and human clients, who were all flat on their stomachs.

“Bastards,” he said through his teeth, and the two men had the gall to laugh at him, cheerful and sadistic, before both of them walked away. They were going for the vaults. Of course they were—there was no emotion more human than greed for that which didn’t belong to them. Rajak could only kneel, his head tucked to his chest, in frustrated impotence. The fury singing through his blood wasn’t unfamiliar. 

No, it was the anger of his people, forced to prostrate themselves in front of wizards for centuries. Regarded as lesser beings, less even than nonmagical humans, never allowed to use wands to defend themselves or to retrieve the artifacts that rightfully belonged to them. Even here, in what was ostensibly goblin land, he was made to kneel and for all his considerable skill, he could do nothing. 

God, he hated humans. 

[Dazai sees the trolley and gestures toward it. Chuuya eyes it suspiciously, the thrum of anticipation thrumming through him.]

“I can’t keep them glued to their seats if we get out of range,” Chuuya muttered to Dazai, who thought for a moment. He glanced around them, those calculating dark eyes taking in everything about their surroundings in a flash. He tapped two spots on the wall. “Collapse these rocks, Here, and this support beam. We’ll find another way out.”

Chuuya flexed his fingers and touched each place, jumping for the support beam. “If I’m triggering a cave-in, we need to get clear,” he said, and Dazai slid his gaze to him. “Then get in the trolley, Chuuya, unless you want to spend hours walking and they end up calling reinforcements to dig us out.”

“You don’t give me orders,” he snapped, vaulting into the trolley. Dazai hopped in right after, taking care to make sure his bare skin didn’t touch the sides. “The deeper the vault, the more important the family. The Lestranges were very important, so I suspect we’re going most of the way to the bottom.” He gave Chuuya the side eye. “You’ll have to drive, but I’ll yell out directions.”

“How the  _ hell  _ do you know directions?” Chuuya asked. 

Dazai tilted his head and smiled. “Secret, chibi. Maybe if you get a little taller I’ll tell you.”

Chuuya lunged for him, ready to roundhouse kick that infuriating smile off his face, but Dazai dodged smoothly. He clucked his tongue. “Not now, slug, we’re on a mission. Start the cart, collapse the entrance, let everyone in the atrium go, and we’re in business.”

Chuuya glared at him and complied, sending the trolley whooshing down the tracks as he tugged on the rocks he could feel in his general awareness of For the Tainted Sorrow. They fell with a great crash behind them, triggering more rocks to fill in the entrance until the tunnel was blocked by what Chuuya estimated was a solid four feet of stone. A minute of barrelling down tracks later, he was coming up on the edge of his range and released the people and goblins in the foyer of the bank. “Alright, shitty Dazai, where to?” he yelled back, taking hold of the trolley controls.

“Left,” Dazai said lazily, lying back in the car with an utterly unconcerned look on his face. 

Chuuya wrenched the handle left and the trolley went careening down a side tunnel. The wind was strong enough that he had to use his ability to stick his hat in place, fearing it would get blown off and lost in the endless tunnels. 

“Left again,” said Dazai, droning on like a GPS. Chuuya grit his teeth and swerved left, going down yet another tunnel. This was the worst rollercoaster he’d ever been on, he thought grimly. 

“Right, Chuuya, unless you want to get killed by a dragon.”

“A  _ what _ ?” Chuuya snapped, pulling the controls hard.

“A dragon!” Dazai said cheerfully. “We’ll probably have to fight one when we get to the vault. Chuuya could feel his stare digging into his back. “Haven’t you fought one, anyway?”

“Shibusawa incident,” he muttered, ducking under a particularly lengthy stalactite. “Yeah. but that wasn’t a real dragon.”

“Left,” Dazai trilled. “You’ll find real dragons underwhelming, then.”

He pulled hard to the left. “Couldn’t you have told me on the train?” 

“But that’s so boring, chibi!”

Chuuya, with his hands occupied driving and his ability occupied sticking himself and Dazai’s coat to the trolley, couldn’t swipe at him the way he desperately wanted to. He settled for ignoring him unless it was him shouting directions. The world dissolved into the wind whipping past them, the muffled sounds of Dazai’s directions, and dodging the occasional stalactites. At one point, they went through a waterfall that hadn’t really felt like a waterfall. It felt a lot more like the feeling of Dazai’s ability activating, actually, but Chuuya didn’t know what that meant.

“Stop,” Dazai said, and the command was said far more seriously then the others. Chuuya slowed the trolley with his ability before hopping out in front of a very fancy-looking vault. “This is it?” he asks, looking it up and down. Dazai was still sitting in the cart. “To your left, hatrack!” he said gleefully, and Chuuya had a split second to dodge— _ was that fire?!  _ Coming out of the darkness of an adjoining tunnel was a dragon, wings flared and teeth bared. It advanced threateningly, swaying its head oddly. “Is it blind?” Chuuya asked incredulously, before jumping onto the ceiling to avoid another fire blast. 

“Half,” Dazai called. “It’s compensating for the loss of depth perception.” He hopped out of the cart finally, the lazyass, and walked over to the vault door. “Have fun, Chuuya!” he said, wiggling a hand at him in a juvenile wave, before tugging off a glove and placing his palm flat on the door. It didn’t do anything, and Dazai scowled. “Shit,” he muttered, just as Chuuya dodged another blast of fire. 

The dragon roared, an unsettling sound that had Chuuya gritting his teeth. “What?” he snapped, hopping onto the wall. He rocketed off with a crash and threw a kick that slammed the dragon’s head to the side. It tried to throw him off, but he had already bounced to another wall. 

“I need to touch it to nullify the protective wards but I can’t actually open it,” Dazai yelled, ducking when the dragon let out another stream of fire. Chuuya clicked his tongue in annoyance. If Dazai had to stay touching it, he couldn’t use his ability to kick it down either. The answer to their predicament came in a flash as he sprang forward, nailing the dragon in the skull again. Why the hell hadn’t he brought bullets on this mission? Dammit!

“I’ll destroy the sides of the vault,” he yelled back, and Dazai’s grin was positively feral. “The chibi has a viable plan! Is the world ending?”

“Fuck off,” he snarled, driving his fist into the dragon’s blind eye. It reared back, growling, and he had a second to jump to the vault and run a hand over the sides. The red glow of his ability covered the rocks and, with a roar of his own, he wrenched them away. With them came a wall, which started to glow in a deeply concerning fashion before Dazai tapped them with a finger. “Hurry up!” he shouted, watching Dazai scramble into the vault. 

He faced the dragon and cracked his knuckles. “Alright,” he said, the smile on his face growing impossibly wide. “Even a dragon can’t fight gravity.”

He leapt, springing from a crouch, and drove his foot into the dragon’s neck so hard that it crashed against the tunnel wall and slid to the ground. He pinned it in place with his ability and it thrashed, growing and spouting fire. Its skin felt slippery to his ability, almost like Tainted didn’t want to stick. He poured more energy into it, watching as the dragon was pressed further and further into the rock. But how the hell was he going to kill it? He couldn’t hold it in place forever without passing out or some other bullshit like that. 

He glanced up, seeing numerous stalactites protruding from the ceiling, and narrowed his eyes. He jumped up to the ceiling, brushing each of the ones directly above the dragon. He didn’t have a lot of space to work with, but he didn’t  _ quite  _ need them at terminal velocity. Not for this thing. 

With a cry, he wrenched them from the tunnel ceiling and accelerated their fall, impaling the thrashing creature in several places. Pierced in its vital organs and elsewhere besides, the animal’s thrashing slowed, eventually stopping. When it had stopped moving, Chuuya hopped down from the ceiling and walked over to the vault. 

“Oi, shitty Dazai,” he called. “Are you done?”

There was no answer, and Chuuya frowned. He grabbed the edge of the wall and vaulted over it, finding himself in a large room piled with gold coins and various artifacts. He took care not to touch any of them as he made his way to solid ground. Dazai was staring quizzically at a book on the far wall. 

“Is that what we’re looking for?” Chuuya asked. 

“No,” Dazai said slowly. “But it’s telling me to pick it up.” 

Chuuya goggled at him. “Are you hearing things, waste of bandages?” he asked. Without the roars of the dragon outside, the tunnels were eerily silent.

Dazai remained standing still, looking at the book, before reaching out a hand. The sheer amount of blue light that burst from his palm after touching it surprised Chuuya. Had it been that powerful?

He tossed the book to the side and it slid down a pile of other artifacts, all of which looked to have been similarly discarded. 

“You didn’t want to at least look at it?”

Dazai didn’t say a thing, walking to the next artifact—a golden cup—before touching it and throwing it into the pile too. 

“Bastard,” Chuuya tried. 

Dazai turned to him, his dark eyes flat and cold. But he was smiling, and that, over anything, took Chuuya aback. “It wasn’t a very nice book,” he said, and turned away. Chuuya stared at him for a second. “Tch,” he muttered, and walked out of the vault to stay by the cart. “Shitty Dazai.”

When Dazai’s done de-magicking everything inside the vault, he jumped out and walked over to Chuuya. “We’re not getting back through the entrance,” he said as a greeting, and Chuuya scoffed. “Yeah, obviously. You’re usually better prepared than this, Dazai.”

He paused when he heard his actual name, no expletives attached, and Chuuya silently congratulated himself on putting himself off balance. “Slug-chan,” he said, turning to him with an unsettling smile. “Do what you’re good at and blast us a hole.”

“To  _ where _ ,” Chuuya growled. “We’re underground.”

Dazai glanced around and pointed, a seemingly arbitrary piece of wall. “There. Aim up.”

Chuuya sighed, the adrenaline from the fight with the dragon having finally seeped out of his system. He activated his ability, and crouched. With a roar, he rocketed forward, impacting the wall with a brutal kick that left it shattered. “One more time, chibikko,” Dazai sang, and Chuuya gritted his teeth. He backed up, took a breath, and shot forward once more. This time, his kick shattered the rock, an opening into another tunnel appearing. Without looking behind at his stupid, shitty partner, Chuuya jumped through and made his way upward on the crags of rock. Let Dazai fall off a ledge and die in there, he thought viciously. 

A minute of rock-jumping later and he was standing outside, the fresh air blowing past his face in an entirely welcome fashion after the muggy, moist air in the caves. To his immeasurable disappointment, Dazai ended up climbing out soon after. “Suicide by cave-in,” he mused, and Chuuya resisted the urge to kick him back into the hole. 

The journey back to Hogwarts was a long one, not in the least because of the several hours spent on the train. Chuuya felt tired, more tired than he usually did after using his ability. He wanted nothing more than to sit in his flat in Yokohama with a glass of wine and maybe a cigarette. He’d been clean for a few weeks now, having slowly tapered off his usage at ane-san’s insistence, but the urge was back and it was stronger than ever. 

As they made the arduous trek up to the castle, Chuuya opened his big fat mouth and said, “You make fun of me for being an alcoholic, but being partners with you would drive anyone to drink.”

“Chuuya,” Dazai said, his eyes opened wide in an expression Q might have made to be deliberately off-putting, “I didn’t know you liked me so much!”

“Shut up, bastard!” Chuuya yelled, jumping up to kick Dazai in the face. The annoying man dodged, as he always did, and landed a few steps away. “No fighting in front of the children,” he scolded, and Chuuya turned in surprise. There, standing by the entrance, stood the girl and the redhead. Harry Potter was standing there too, except for some reason, he only existed from the waist up. 

He raised an eyebrow at the...two and a half...of them. “Isn’t it past curfew?” he muttered to Dazai, whose face stretched into an unholy grin. “It is,” he said gleefully, and said several quick things in English that Chuuya, being Chuuya, didn’t understand. He did, however, watch as all three of them turned bright red. Hermione nodded once before turning on her heel, dragging the boy and a half behind her. 

“What did you…”

Dazai turned that beaming, indecent grin onto him. “I told them that if they were going to violate curfew, they might as well not get caught. Also, that an invisibility cloak isn’t worth much if you have two very visible accomplices.”

Chuuya was taken aback at the mention of an invisibility cloak, but he only shrugged. “Encouraging them to break rules, dickhead?” 

Dazai was curiously still for a couple seconds. “Perhaps,” he said noncommittally, before wiggling his eyebrows at him. “Why, chibi, does your alcoholic ass want to break rules too?”

“You—” Chuuya snarled and lunged, Dazai easily stepping out of the way and into the hall. “What would Neko-sensei say?” he asked in a thoughtful tone.

“She’d  _ say  _ that the headmaster would like to see you,” came a clipped voice in Japanese. Neko-sensei herself, as Dazai was apparently calling the severe woman with the bun, was striding into the entryway. Each of her footsteps was as sharp as her voice. She stood with her back straight and chin up, the way ane-san always did, and Chuuya was suddenly struck by their similarities. They were both so very poised all the time. 

“Translation charm,” Dazai muttered at Chuuya’s unspoken question, and he nodded. “Lead the way, Neko-sensei,” he drawled. The only sign of the woman’s displeasure was the slight downturning of her already frowning mouth. She turned on her heel and trotted away, Dazai and Chuuya trailing behind. She expertly navigated the moving staircases with a grace Chuuya was only a little envious of, thank you very much, to a stone gargoyle. “Ice mice,” she said pointedly, and the stone statue  _ moved  _ out of the way. 

Chuuya saw Dazai blink once, the only sign of his surprise. Up another flight of stairs they went until they were in front of two great doors. The woman pushed them open. “Albus, I brought them,” she called inside, and they walked into a room filled with whirring, shiny baubles that Chuuya couldn’t make sense of. The walls were lined with portraits of old men and old women. They all cringed away from them—no, from  _ Dazai _ . He winked at one particularly fearful portrait and the woman inside decided to cut her losses, evidently, by the way she disappeared from the frame through a painted door. 

The client, in all his eye-searingly unfashionable glory, was sitting at a large desk. The debrief that followed was long, tiring, and really only made Chuuya’s need for a cigarette and a bottle of alcohol stronger. 

“A cup, you say?” the old man asked, lacing his fingers in front of his chin. Dazai wasn’t even bothering to look interested in the conversation, waving him off. “Yeah, with a badger on it.”

Dumbledore nodded. “That might have been it,” he murmured. “There’s no other reason the Lestranges would have a Hufflepuff family heirloom.”

“Yeah, great. We done here, old man?” Chuuya asked, sick of that room and sick of Dazai and sick of that entire goddamn country. 

Dumbledore sighed. “You may go,” he said wearily, and Chuuya didn’t wait for him to change his mind. He hopped out of his chair, grabbed the collar of Dazai’s coat, and tugged him out of the room. He was going to open up his emergency bottle, which he’d stashed away in a hidden corner of his room as soon as he unpacked, and drink himself sick. He didn’t even care that it would be the second day in a row.

“Chibi,” said Dazai, sounding uncharacteristically tired.

“What?”

“Can I get some of—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening scene was supposed to be funny. Not...that.  
> Also, y'all are the nicest people I have ever met on the internet. Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and giving me kudos because it makes my shriveled writer's heart really happy :)


	7. Conversations

#  **Chapter Seven: Conversations**

“To me life is one long process of tumbling and turning. I see a human being turning over and over in the same pathetic round…And as a writer I go on describing that same person over and over.”

 _Stories of Osaka Life_ by Sakunosuke Oda

[Harry can’t sleep that night. In his mind, he replays the contractor’s kick and Dazai’s dodge, fluid and effortless and graceful. He wants to be able to do that. He wants the security of knowing that he’s not helpless without a wand. In the morning, he leaves the tower early to go seek out the contractors. He doesn’t find them until lunch, when the redhead stumbles into the Great Hall looking like Sirius coming off a bender.]

As soon as Harry saw him, he stood up abruptly. “Harry?” Ron said curiously, but Harry didn’t answer. He made a beeline straight for Nakahara, feeling unease coil in his gut but knowing he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t _ask_ at the very least. He stopped a few feet away from him, trying not to fidget. 

“Eh?” Nakahara said, squinting at him. He looked less put-together than the previous days, his ponytail wilder and his coat hanging slightly askew. Harry took a deep breath and said, in poor Japanese that he looked up in the dead of night after taking his invisibility cloak and sneaking into the library, “Please teach me!” 

He bowed, too, figuring it couldn’t hurt his case. 

Nakahara blinked at him, before muttering something that sounded like a curse. He completely ignored Harry to stride over to the Gryffindor table, pinching his nose in clear frustration. He snapped something at Hermione in French. She rolled her eyes at him before following him back to Harry, who’d drifted to the edge of the room to avoid stares. 

“I’m translating,” she said, crossing her arms, “because apparently, you can’t be bothered to look up a translation charm.”

Harry laughed awkwardly, knowing he hadn’t thought this through at all and that Hermione was right, as usual.

Nakahara said something to Hermione, whose eyebrows snapped up. She glanced at Harry, looking markedly less annoyed and more intrigued. “He’s asking why,” she informed him, and Harry flushed. He hadn’t planned on Hermione knowing about this. Really, he hadn’t planned at all, and he was becoming steadily aware of it. “Because I don’t want to be defenseless without my wand,” he replied, having nothing more than the truth for once. “And because I don’t want people to die in front of me, ever again.”

Hermione’s eyes hadn’t lost their curious glint, but her face softened somewhat as she relayed his message to Nakahara. Nakahara looked surprised, then, tilting his head to regard Harry with greater intensity. “ _Hermione_ ,” he said, glancing at her. “ _Est-il doué?”_

 _“Oui, le meilleur...avec une baguette. Sans, je ne sais pas,”_ Hermione replied, pursing her lips, and Nakahara shrugged. He muttered something to her, and she smiled slightly. “He says to meet him on the grounds near the lake, after class. And not to bring your wand,” she told Harry, who nodded. 

“Thank you,” he said in Japanese, and the man laughed at him before turning away and waving. He started walking in the direction of the staff table, Harry only watching him. 

“You’ll need a translation spell,” Hermione said grumpily, and Harry winced. “Do you…?”

“I’ll give it to you in Transfiguration,” she sighed. 

“You’re the best,” he said with fervor. 

“Don’t you ever forget it.”

They sat back at the Gryffindor table, Ron raising an eyebrow at them as he stuffed his face. “What was that about?” he asked through a mouthful of food. 

“Chew first, Ronald,” Hermione sighed. “Harry asked Nakahara to train him.”

The redhead swallowed with a noisy gulp. “Oh, neat. He’s kinda violent.” With that, he recounted his encounter with the other contractor, a thoroughly drunk Hagrid, and Nakahara’s ire. “It was funny though,” he added. The other students largely ignored them, having long gotten used to the three of them in a little bubble isolated from the rest. Harry was aware that there were at least a couple people staring at them anyway, openly curious after he had spoken to the contractor. A particularly loud giggle, from Lavender of all people, caught his attention.

“He’s fit,” Lavender said dreamily, staring at Nakahara at the staff table. The man was eating his food like it was the last meal he’d ever have while trying to fend Dazai off with one hand. Muffled cries of outrage floated over to the table from both men as Nakahara gave up on eating to bash the man’s head in. The headmaster looked amused and Snape looked murderous, while McGonagall looked as vaguely stern and disapproving as she ever did. 

Parvati was laughing at her. “Lav, babe, you just have a thing for redheads,” she said, smirking. 

Lavender shoved her a little. “I do _not,”_ she said hotly, pointedly not looking at Ron. Harry glanced at his friend, who was pointedly not looking at Lavender. “Did something happen?” he muttered to his friend, who sighed. “She was totally into me when the year started,” he grumbled, “but now she’s always talking about Nakahara. It’s been getting on my nerves.”

“Tough luck, mate,” Harry said, quasi-sympathetically but really only shocked that Ron had a romantic life at _all_. If he’d been a more observant sort of person, he might have noticed Hermione perking up. 

As it stood, he wasn’t, so he started eating his food and wondering about what Nakahara would teach him. Would he teach him hand-to-hand? He was probably pretty good at it, seeing as how he was always in some sort of physical confrontation with Dazai. Maybe he knew some spells…? But no, he wasn’t a wizard, he wouldn’t know any. 

He was so deep in thought he didn’t notice Hermione nudging him. “Go to Transfiguration without me, yeah?” she said. “I have to run up to the tower and grab the charm for you. 

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said again, and she smiled. “Of course,” she said, and left the Great Hall, bookbag swinging from an arm. Ron was watching her, Harry noticed.

“Does she have something on her uniform?” Harry asked. 

“What—no,” Ron replied, whipping his head back around to focus on his plate. 

“Uh huh,” Harry said disbelievingly. 

Transfiguration came and went, along with one translation charm that Harry nearly messed up. Hadn’t his mother been _good_ at charms? He fervently wished talent was something genetic but was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten either his mother’s or his father’s skill. Just another reason he was asking Nakahara to help him. 

The school day seemed to drag on endlessly as he waited, tense enough to snap, for classes to end so he could get to the grounds. When Flitwick finally dismissed him, he raced up the steps to Gryffindor tower to drop off his bag and change into a ratty t-shirt because he didn’t want to ruin his uniform. He passed by Ron on his way down who had been making his way up far more sedately. “Good luck!” his best friend called.

“Thanks!” Harry yelled back, blitzing down the stairs and through the hallways to the entrance of the castle. He jogged through the doors to see a brilliant blue sky, a rarity in the Scottish highlands, and barely any clouds. The wind was mild, too, and all of it combined to create a surprisingly warm autumn day. He quickly spotted Nakahara in his usual all-black ensemble, standing on a knoll with his hands in his pockets and with his back to him. 

He walked over, trying not to not to look too eager. When he was about five feet away, Nakahara turned his head slightly so he could see his face. “Yo,” he said, and Harry, despite himself, smiled. “Thank you for agreeing to help me,” he said, feeling the translation charm moving his tongue. Nakahara looked surprised for a second. “Magic is useful,” he said eventually, staring at him.

“It is,” said Harry, not entirely sure how to reply. Nakahara cocked his head, examining his face more closely. “You remind me of someone,” he said abruptly. 

Harry was used to this from other wizards, many of whom had known his parents, but Nakahara can’t have known them. 

The ability user snapped his fingers. “You look like one of those assholes who work with Dazai,” he said, face twisting in annoyance.

“I do?” 

“Yeah. Anyway, you’re the kid who’s supposed to be defeating Voldemort, right?”

Harry, taken aback, flinched instinctively. “That’s me,” he said, his smile turning grim. “Prophesied one, and all that.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It’s not,” Harry muttered, and Nakahara laughed. “Kid, when I was your age, I was already in the mafia. Have you even seen combat?”

“Yes,” Harry snapped, thinking back to that horrible day when he’d led a group of kids his own age to fight adults with years of training and insanity under their belts. A day when Ron had been scarred and Hermione had nearly died from Dolohov’s curse. The day that Sirius died, because Harry had been too stupid and too weak to prevent it. 

Nakahara surveyed him. “Seen someone die in front of you yet?” he asked, as if reading his mind. Could ability users do legilimency? Harry wondered, before his thoughts turned again to Sirius. Laughing, slightly unhinged, protective Sirius, falling through the Veil. He nodded, trying not to choke on the memory, and Nakahara’s tight expression relaxed. “Maybe you’re not as soft as I thought,” he said, almost amused. 

Harry bristled before he replayed what Nakahara had said. “Wait, mafia?” he asked incredulously. “Hermione said you were from the Armed Detective Agency!”

Nakahara goggled at him, before he began to chuckle. The chuckle turned into a full on cackle as he laughed, holding his stomach. “ _Me?_ From the ADA bastards? You’re kidding,” he said. 

“Hermione said there’s no way Dumbledore would let someone from the mafia into Hogwarts,” Harry said stubbornly, and Nakahara only laughed harder. “Nah, kid,” he gasped, rubbing at his face. “She’s got it half right. Shitty Dazai’s from the ADA. Me, I’m Port Mafia.” His mouth pulled into a wide, feral grin. “Do I look like the type of soft-hearted bastard to be one of Fukuzawa’s dogs?”

Harry had no idea who Fukuzawa was, but Nakahara’s expression told him all he needed to know. “No,” he admitted, and Nakahara’s grin widened. 

Deciding to change the subject, Harry desperately tried not to fidget and asked, “What will you teach me?”

Nakahara gave him a once-over, and he was suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that he was still skinny despite Mrs. Weasley’s cooking. He knew what he probably looked like to the ability-user. Stick-thin, pale, with dark shadows under his eyes from not having slept the previous night. Not much of anything at all. 

“How’s your aim?” Nakahara asked abruptly. “With a wand.”

Harry hesitated, taken by surprise. “Pretty good,” he said. 

Nakahara hummed under his breath before reaching into a pocket. Harry instinctively went for his wand, then realized he had left it in his bag as per Nakahara’s request. When Nakahara pulled out a pistol of all things, Harry’s heart rate sped up exponentially. _This is it,_ he thought, utterly resigned. _I’m going to die._

But instead of blowing his brains out, Nakahara tossed it to Harry. He fumbled, nearly dropping it, because even though he was good at catching things, “things” didn’t usually apply to a gun. 

“They don’t let firearms on the plane, but the waste of bandages picked one up off a police officer when we first got here,” Nakahara said nonchalantly. “You’ve got almost no muscle mass and probably no martial arts training at all, so I’d just get bored trying to teach you hand-to-hand. But anyone can shoot a gun, and you’re probably used to aiming since you wizards all have wands.” He flashed Harry a smug smile. “I doubt Voldemort’s going to expect the Chosen One to come at him with a gun, either.”

“Yeah,” Harry said weakly. 

Over the next few hours, Nakahara walked Harry through the basics of how to use a gun. Gun safety (never point it at something you’re not willing to shoot), how to hold it (not like _that,_ Potter, it’s not a wand), and how to shoot it (it won’t backfire and kill you, Jesus). Just after Nakahara authorized him to try and shoot at a tree, he heard someone calling from behind them. “Chuuya!” yelled an angry voice, and Harry watched with bemusement as Nakahara seemed to straighten up. 

“What do you want, bastard?” he screeched, whipping around clenching his fists. Dazai rushed over, skidding to a stop in front of him. “I was going to wander into the forest and see if something in there could kill me,” Dazai said, scowling. “But then I saw you and the whole mood was ruined.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Nakahara sniffed. “I wouldn’t miss you if something in there succeeded where you’ve always failed.”

Harry saw Dazai grit his teeth. “That’s my gun,” he said, eyeing the pistol in Harry’s hands. 

“No, it’s a policeman’s gun,” Nakahara snapped. “Don’t you have better things to do than bother me, shithead?”

“My existence bothers you,” Dazai shot back, crossing his arms. “And believe me, the feeling's mutual.”

“Fuck off, bastard.”

“Oh, look, chibi’s angry at me! If I crouch, can I hear what he’s saying?”

“Waste of bandages,” Nakahara hissed. 

“Petit mafia.”

“Enemy of all women.”

“Choo-choo train.”

“Social misfit.”

The sound of a safety being taken off startled them both into looking at Harry, whose expression was entirely deadpan. “Can I shoot the tree now?” he asked. He had the creeping feeling that he was going to miss the tree entirely, or, worse, shoot someone by accident. This was his first time holding a firearm, after all.

“You should shoot the bastard,” Nakahara muttered, and Harry rolled his eyes skyward. “Dumbledore would expel me if I shot someone,” he pointed out, feeling entirely reasonable in this assumption. Apparently Nakahara agreed, as he heaved a sigh and turned back toward Dazai. “I’m teaching him how to shoot, so unless you want to be collateral, you might want to fight something better to do.”

“Chuuya, you don’t even use guns,” Dazai said, affecting a shocked expression. “You just haul boxes of bullets with you like a savage.”

“I still know how to shoot one!” 

“You’ve probably taught him all wrong,” Dazai huffed, looking over Harry’s form. “Yeah, no, hold it like this.” He adjusted Harry’s grip slightly. 

“Stop poaching my student!”

Dazai ignored him, making one more check of Harry’s positioning, before nodding. “Try and hit that knot on that branch,” he said, pointing. 

Harry grit his teeth, trying to block out his teacher’s outraged screams. He took careful aim, squinting, and pulled the trigger. He wasn’t prepared for the recoil and flinched back. Harry peered at the target, hoping he hadn’t missed it entirely. 

“I’ll be damned,” Nakahara muttered, seeing what Harry was seeing. A perfect bullseye. 

“See, chibbiko? You _were_ teaching him all wrong!” Dazai said, excitedly. Nakahara let out an inarticulate scream of rage, swiping at Dazai with a roundhouse kick. Dazai jumped out of the way, giggling all the while, as Harry stared at the perfect hole in the knot of wood. He felt dazed, as if what he was seeing was through someone else’s eyes. He’d done _that_.

“It was beginner’s luck,” Nakahara yelled, throwing out an arm to point at another knot on a tree further on. “Potter, hit that.”

Harry nodded, concentrating. He lifted the gun, cocked it, and exhaled. He could see the knot clearly through the foliage. He pulled the trigger, slightly more prepared for the recoil but still surprised at the knockback. Nakahara crashed through the foliage with an inhuman jump, landing on a branch to peer at the branch. He’d gotten it dead-center, once again. 

“What the _hell,_ ” Nakahara said, turning to him. “You’ve never shot one of those, right, kid?”

“Nope,” Harry confirmed. 

Dazai let out a delighted peal of laughter. “He has better aim than you, slug!” he chirped. 

“Shut up!” Nakahara growled, lunging for him. Doing his best to ignore the byplay, Harry stared in wonder at the gun in his hand. He’d just _done that._ And apparently, hitting a bullseye twice, when he hadn’t shot a gun in his entire life, wasn’t normal. Surprising himself, he started laughing. Thrilled, pure laughter, the way he hadn’t laughed in months. Or maybe even years. He clapped a hand to his forehead, fingers seeking out the lightning bolt scar out of habit. “Bloody hell,” he gasped, having the presence of mind to click the safety back on as he fell on his arse in the grass.

“Is he okay?” he distantly heard Nakahara say. He heard footsteps come closer and a hand came down on his shoulder. “You good?”

Harry looked up to see Nakahara’s face. He didn’t exactly look _worried,_ per say, but there was a tiny crease between his eyebrows and he wasn’t smiling. “Kid. You in there?”

Harry took a breath before smiling. “Yeah,” he whispered, and Nakahara’s smirk returned. “Call me Chuuya-sensei,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder and standing back up from his crouch. Harry sat in a grass for a moment more, too dumbfounded to listen to the sound of Dazai’s outrage and Chuuya’s rejoinders. Rather, he looked out onto the grassy knolls of Hogwarts grounds toward the forest. With the sun warming his hair and the knowledge that he wouldn’t be entirely hopeless as he’d feared, the future seemed a little less terrifying. 

Dazai plopped down next to him, leaning back and folding his arms to create a pillow for his head. “The chibi over there uses aim-assist when he shoots,” Dazai said in a stage-whisper. “He just uses his ability to return fire with the same bullets that were shot at him. He can’t actually shoot with a gun that well.”

Harry choked on another laugh. 

“Oi, bastard,” Chuuya-sensei growled, stomping over. “Are you trying to infect my student with lies?”

“Ah, Chuuya, you know I never lie during a negotiation,” he said, frowning at the other contractor. 

“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said testily. “This is you turning him against me.”

“You do that easily enough with your personality. With just your face, really,” Dazai sniffed, and Chuuya tried to stomp on him. Dazai calmly rolled to the side, complaining about getting grass in his face. Harry watched, wideyed, as they played some sort of morbid whack a mole with Chuuya-sensei getting increasingly incensed and Dazai keeping up a constant stream of complaints. “Chibi, I’m tired,” he whined, “can we go inside now? It’s getting cold.”

“You’re wearing a coat,” he shot back, crossing his arms. 

“But the kid’s not,” Dazai pointed out, and Chuuya-sensei looked over. Harry was, admittedly, a little cold but he would never say so out loud. 

“Lesson’s over for the day,” Chuuya-sensei said finally. “Out here at the same time in two days, yeah?”

Harry nodded, glad that he’d picked a day that he hadn’t scheduled Quidditch practice on. “Thank you,” he murmured, standing. 

The contractor waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t be late.”

Harry made his way back inside the castle after handing the gun back to Chuuya-sensei, still reeling. He had to find Ron and tell him. And Hermione, too—she’d never forgive him if he didn’t keep her in the loop. 

[After classes, as Harry sprints up to Gryffindor tower, Hermione makes her way to the library. She figures she’d be able to get her homework done early. She greets the librarian, ignoring her glare with the ease of long practice. She hesitates when she sees Dazai lounging in a chair by the window, a book on top of his face.]

Hermione crept closer, trying to get a good look at the title. Her eyebrows shot up when she realized what it was: _A History of Magical Suicide,_ by someone named Reginald Selwyn. She jumped back, barely stifling an eep, when Dazai shifted. He let out a long, tired-sounding groan, and plucked the book off his face. “Did you need something?” he asked, perfectly polite. 

“I was just trying to see what you were reading,” Hermione admitted. She would never say so to his face, but the man scared her—what with his bandages and gloves and fluent English. She just couldn’t get a read on him at all, unlike the other contractor, and that made her deeply uncomfortable. To her, Dazai was a complete mystery. 

Also, she was almost completely sure that at least one of the contractors wasn’t from the Armed Detective Agency. The way they interacted suggested a long history with each other but not exactly a cordial one, and their bickering hadn’t seemed to settle the way it would have if they’d been coworkers. Therefore, she’d concluded that they were from separate organizations. Perhaps they’d worked together in the past, but there was some underlying tension that had never been addressed since then. Because she knew for a fact that Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn’t have trusted a foreign government agency with his students, that only left one option. He’d willingly invited a mafioso into Hogwarts. 

He was just barmy enough to do it, too, she thought privately. 

Dazai studied her, as if judging her honesty, before sighing dramatically. “This book is no good,” he said, voice morose. “A magical suicide wouldn’t work on me at all.”

Hermione stiffened, remembering his murder of the Fat Lady. “I’ll have you know that the portrait you killed has been revived,” she said stiffly, and Dazai lifted an eyebrow. “You can revive a portrait?” he asked. 

“Yes,” said Hermione. “It requires the reapplication of all the animation spells, but all the memories and descriptions used to create the portrait’s personality are all still there. All your ability did was unbind the charms from the memories and the paint. Professor McGonagall had to bring in an expert, so we all had to sleep in the Great Hall.”

“Boring,” Dazai said, leaning back in his chair, but Hermione had the oddest feeling that he was interested. She didn’t know what it was or where it came from, but she kept talking anyway. “So he ended up just recasting the charms. She woke up in the next ten minutes, having no memory of what had happened between her...death...and revival. She was wondering where you had gone.”

“I said, _boring_ ,” Dazai repeated, looking at her with one gimlet eye. “You’re talkative, hedgehog.”

Hermione bristled. “And you’re rude, bandages,” she hissed. 

She savored the split-second image of Dazai’s surprised expression before it settled into something far nastier. “Prickly hedgehog,” he admonished, and Hermione grit her teeth. Trying not to lose her nerve, she plucked the book from Dazai’s hand and thumbed through it. She held her breath as she read, a plan forming in her mind. “These are all really painful ways to die,” she said, flicking through the pages as she scanned them.

“You’ve been looking at that book for, what, ten seconds?” he deadpanned. “How would you know?”

She snapped the book shut and placed it onto the table, sliding into a seat in front of the contractor. “I read through every fifth page,” she said, leaning on her hand, “for about thirty pages, and the titles of the rest.”

“In ten seconds?” Dazai asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically. 

Hermione regarded him with as much disdain as she could muster, frantically calling up images of the relevant pages in her head. “Page 23,” she said, mentally crossing her fingers. “Suicide by Lethifold attack. To kill yourself with this method, go to sleep in an area near Lethifold spottings. You will wake up sometime during the night feeling as if you are suffocating. Do not fight back, or there is a high possibility that the Lethifold will abandon you for easier prey.”

Dazai picked up the book, really looking at her for the first time, and flipped to page 23. “Word for word,” he murmured, and Hermione let herself smile triumphantly. “And you could commit suicide that way,” she added. “Lethifolds are magical creatures. I don’t think your ability works on those.”

“No,” Dazai admitted, closing the book. He regarded her, his gaze dark and intent. She felt like he could see every bit of her with those eyes of his, and it scared her even more. _But I got his attention,_ she reminded herself.

“Why did you come looking for me, Hermione Granger?” Dazai asked, tilting his head to look at her the same way Crookshanks looked at his prey. Hermione swallowed, hoping it wasn’t audible in the quiet hush of the library. “I’m curious,” she said boldly. She tried dredging up some of that Gryffindor courage she was supposed to have. But all she felt was a strange sense of unease.

He watched her for a few more seconds, not even blinking. “I see,” he said eventually. “You’re better off asking Chuuya.”

“He’s busy,” she said, knowing he and Harry were probably outside by now. She suddenly wished she had brought him for this conversation. He’d never been any good at subtlety, but he was at least very good with a wand. Hermione was just...smart. Book smart, not even street smart, and while she was good at theory, practical application was still difficult for her. It was why Harry had taught the DA in the end and she’d been the one organizing. 

She took a breath. “Osamu Dazai, the youngest mafia executive,” she said. “That’s you, right? You and Nakahara decimated an enemy organization overnight. For that, they called you Double Black.”

Dazai smiled slowly, and it was absolutely terrifying. His teeth glinted in the afternoon light and she swallowed again, her mouth going dry. “The hedgehog did her research,” he murmured. “Tell me, where did you get this information? And so quickly, too.”

She swallowed again, her tongue feeling like a lead weight. Her palms were sweaty. Why had she ever thought this would be a good idea? Curiosity killed the cat, she thought dizzily. 

But satisfaction brought it back, she reminded herself, taking another breath to steady herself. She’d faced down Death Eaters. She’d faced down Dolohov and come out alive. Hell, she’d thrown Umbridge to the centaurs. This man was nothing compared to them. And he couldn't hurt her, or Dumbledore would know.

With that reassuring thought, she opened her mouth. “I owled my mum, asked her to send me as many Yokohama-based newspapers dating back several years as she could find. The owl had to make three trips, but in the end, I had knowledge of major events in Yokohama history pertaining to ability users. The Port Mafia was almost never mentioned but it’s the gaps that told me the most. A warehouse explosion. Several gangsters were found dead. Buildings decimated. I did some more digging, and there was something in common with every incident.”

Dazai nodded. “Go on,” he said. 

“Craters,” she whispered. “Craters in the surrounding area and at the scene of the crime, in the walls and floors, but also the ceiling. I heard from a conversation between Professors Flitwick and McGonagall that Nakahara’s ability is gravity manipulation, and I saw the craters on the grounds. I knew one of you had to be mafia. So I figured it was Nakahara. But that can’t have been all of it.”

“No,” Dazai agreed.

She took a shallow breath. “There was a survivor interviewed by one of the newspapers. He mentioned a boy with bandages, but his testimony was dismissed as the ravings of a traumatized gangster.”

“Chuuya could have been that boy.”

“No,” said Hermione, swallowing noisily. “Because he had dark hair. Nakahara’s hair is too bright to ever be mistaken for brown, and he wouldn’t go in disguise because these were supposed to be no-survivor missions.”

Dazai remained silent, waiting for her to continue. She fisted her hands in her skirt underneath the table, trying to keep them from trembling. “So there were two,” she said. “Two people, one of them a boy with bandages who matched your description and Nakahara as the other.”

“So you know I was with the Port Mafia. But the rest?” he asked.

“From the newspapers and what the teachers have been whispering, especially the way they get all quiet when Nakahara’s around, he must have a really powerful ability. But he’s,” Hermione winced, “not exactly level-headed. No one with any sense would send him into the field without someone who could control him. Your nullification ability would do that. But they wouldn’t send some inexperienced kid, that’s asking for you to get killed. For you to have been sent out with Nakahara on all these missions, you had to be experienced and powerful. ‘Youngest mafia exec’ was a guess, but an educated one. You can’t be much older than Nakahara.”

She dug her nails into her palm. “The name ‘Double Black’ came up once,” she said quietly. “A throwaway mention in a transcription of a gang leader’s speech. He fancied himself some sort of usurper, sent to liberate Yokohama from the Port Mafia and the threat of Double Black. There was a notice of his death in a newspaper the week after that was printed.”

Dazai regarded her silently, before shaking his head and chuckling. “I underestimated you,   
hedgehog,” he said, grinning easily. It was a different sort of smile. Less teeth, she thought faintly, and the air of menace that had wrapped around the two of them dissipated. She inhaled, feeling like she could finally breathe. 

“But why go to all the trouble?” he asked. 

“I was curious,” she told him, and he chuckled again. “That,” he said, “will get you killed.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. _I’m never doing something like that again._

Dazai propped his chin on his hand. “But there’s more to it,” he said. “You wanted to confirm your suspicions, but there’s something else.”

“Yes,” she said, and steeled herself. “What can you tell me about organized crime?”

Dazai’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you want with organized crime, hedgehog? Thinking about joining an underground organization?”

“Hardly,” Hermione scoffed. “Call it academic curiosity.”

“But it’s not.”

“No,” she agreed, and Dazai laughed so loudly that Madam Pince shushed him from her desk. 

[Chuuya and Dazai are walking back to the entrance hall, bickering. Harry had left a few minutes ago, and Dazai left Hermione in the library to bother Chuuya. The third member of the Golden Trio, loitering in the entrance hall, steels himself for the inevitable interaction. He can do this, he reminds himself.]

Ron gritted his teeth and stepped into their line of sight. “Mr. Nakahara,” he said. “Can I talk to you?” He’d begged the translation charm off of Hermione right after Harry had cast it. 

“Chibi, you’re so popular,” Dazai said, blinking rapidly at the sight of Ron approaching. “I think I’ll go talk to the plant Professor.” He slipped away before Nakahara had a chance to grab him, striding off in the direction of the greenhouses. 

“What is it?” Nakahara asked, looking irritated. “It’s been a long day, so be quick.”

“I can ask sometime else,” Ron said quickly, fidgeting with the sleeves of his robes. Nakahara glared at him. “Ask now,” he muttered. “Might as well.”

Ron took a deep breath. “HowdoIaskagirlout—”

Nakahara blinked at him, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline and blue eyes opened wide. “What.”

Ron lifted his head to hold Nakahara’s stare, pleading. “It’s just—I don’t know who else to ask, and I figure if you laugh at me and walk away it won’t matter much, but if I asked one of my brothers and they laughed at me, they’d tell everyone and it’d be all over the school—”

“Breath, kid, jeez,” Nakahara said. “Why the hell are you bothering me with this crap, anyway?”

“Got nobody else to bother,” Ron muttered mulishly. “And Dazai’s way of asking women out is begging for a double suicide.”

“How would you—”

“He tells stories when he’s drunk.”

“Ah,” Nakahara said. “He does.” He looked briefly constipated. “Look, kid. Women like to feel appreciated. So treat her like a lady, yeah? Don’t get all clingy and fawn over her, that’s just reeking of the desperation that the bastard is so fond of. But be nice to her, and pay attention when she says things.” 

Ron nodded quickly. “Thank you,” he said, turning around and getting out of there before he could say more things he could regret. He left Nakahara standing by the door, face screwed up in confusion and annoyance. 

[Chuuya is almost to his quarters, sure that he can’t be accosted by another kid, when it’s proved that the universe does hate him. Professor Sprout comes barreling around the corner and he sighs, resisting the temptation to flee into his room. Or, better yet, shoot her or something.]

“What is it?” he asked. The portly woman whose name he couldn’t be bothered to recall was frowning deeply. “Your friend,” she started, but he cut her off. “Not my friend,” he said. 

“Your _colleague,_ ” she stressed, “is banned from the greenhouses. Do please make sure he doesn’t go back there.”

“What can he possibly have done in the five minutes he was out of my sight?” Chuuya asked.

“He tried to eat a mandrake!” she shrieked. 

He didn’t know what that was, but it was either dangerous, important, or both, judging from the expression on her face. Chuuya couldn’t even be bothered to muster up the energy to be surprised. “Sounds like the dickhead,” he muttered. The professor looked at him askance—probably for the cursing, but he really didn’t care—before bustling off. 

He’d reached his quota for human interaction for the day. With a sigh, he pushed open the door to his room and fell facedown on his bed. “Students here are fucking _weird,_ ” he muttered. He’d really just regurgitated all of ane-san’s lectures on romance and appropriate courtship from when he was deep in the throes of puberty. It had sucked, and he’d really had no interest in romantic partners at the time. Or now, anyway. Tch. He’d ended up married to his work. 

He resolved to beat Dazai’s face in whenever he popped up. He was probably still alive, considering he was a cockroach who couldn’t figure out to die even if it was by his own hand. He’d have time for that later.

[Elsewhere in the castle, Minerva is chugging a cup of tea like it’s her last cup on earth. Severus watches her, his decidedly grey robes swathed around him like a blanket as he sips cautiously on his own cup. “I’m going to kill Albus,” he hisses, the irony of that statement completely wasted on him. Minerva sighs. She’d already passive-aggressively ripped apart his couch cushions with her claws. Perhaps she’d push all his books off his shelves next.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The convo between Chuuya and Hermione went like this:  
> Chuuya: Is he good?  
> Hermione: Yes, the best..with a wand. Without, I don't know.
> 
> Also!! I've finished writing!! Ahh!! Which means updates will now be daily!! Time to sleep for a week.
> 
> EDIT: ArtistisHope has very kindly corrected my French (I've only done two years of learning the language), and the chapter now reflects the change :)


	8. Zombies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the fighting starts, I highly recommend listening to https://soundcloud.com/ruuriiiii/bsd-chuuya-corruption-ost. He doesn't actually use Corruption (not yet ;p) but it's still fun to listen to.

#  **Chapter Eight: Zombies**

“When I kill a man, I do it with my sword, but people like you don't use swords. You gentlemen kill with your power, with your money, and sometimes just with your words: you tell people you're doing them a favor. True, no blood flows, the man is still alive, but you've killed him all the same. I don't know whose sin is greater - yours or mine.”

_ The Life of a Stupid Man _ by Ryuunosuke Akutagawa

[Chuuya and Dazai, about to leave on their next artifact-hunting mission, decided to visit Hogsmeade first. Chuuya figured it’d at least be interesting, and Dazai has that gleam in his eye that means he’s noticed something and wants to puzzle it out. They’re sitting in the Three Broomsticks. It’s not particularly crowded, so Rosmerta comes to their table almost as soon as they sit down.]

“We don’t get many customers on weekdays,” the beautiful waitress said, a pad of paper and a quill in her hand. “What can I get you two gentlemen?” She had strange eyes, Chuuya noticed. They were an unremarkable green, but it wasn’t the color that put him off. They were oddly blank.

Chuuya watched with a growing sense of dismay as Dazai looked adoringly up at her, a dopey smile on his face. “You are as gorgeous as the summer sky over the sea,” he whispered, “and your voice is more lovely than the sound of tinkling bells. Would you do the honor of committing a double suicide with me?”

The waitress blinked at him. “I—” she started, taking a step back. 

Damn it. Chuuya just wanted some fucking alcohol, but no, shitty Dazai just  _ had  _ to get in the way. He smacked Dazai over the head with his menu, much like one would a cat with a newspaper. “Let me get some booze before you drive her away,” he hissed. Dazai rubbed his head, looking morose. “Chuuya,” he protested, but was ignored.

Chuuya faced the waitress, fixing an apologetic smile on his face, and asked if she spoke French. “ _ Un peu, _ ” she said, smiling weakly. Chuuya thanked all his lucky stars and even some of his unlucky ones as he ordered a bottle of wine, a sandwich, and a cup of her strongest coffee. He jerked his chin at Dazai. “Feel free to put whatever unpleasant shit you’d like in the coffee. It’s his.”

The waitress’s mouth quirked into a wry grin. “I’ll have your orders ready in a minute,” she said, walking away. 

“Would it kill you to not be a dick?” Chuuya asked, glaring at Dazai. Dazai propped his chin up on his hand, staring at her as she went into the backroom, presumably to drop off their orders. 

“Chuuya,” he said, and he startled slightly at the serious tone and lack of a nickname. “Wizards. They have mind-control spells, don’t they?”

“Huh?”

“I had a most enlightening conversation with Hermione Granger yesterday. She informed me that wizards have a spell they can use to control people.”

“It’s not like it would work on you,” Chuuya said testily. 

“No,” Dazai agreed. “But it would work on a witch. One of the symptoms of a poorly cast curse are eyes that can’t focus.” 

Chuuya stiffened, his coat suddenly becoming uncomfortably warm. He’d already categorized everyone in the Three Broomsticks when they walked in out of habit, but he did so again. A man in the corner, reading a newspaper, with dark brown hair and wire-frame spectacles. His frame was lanky and thin. Not a threat. A plump woman with a child, sitting at another table. She wore a purple hat with a green ribbon and though it was tacky, a crime against fashion didn’t constitute a threat either. An old woman sitting on a barstool, a large cloak covering her small frame. Also not a threat, judging by the way she held herself. Probably arthritis. 

“Caster’s not here,” Dazai said quietly, noticing Chuuya’s darting eyes. “It can be maintained over a distance.”

“Shit,” Chuuya breathed. “You know who it is?”

“I have my suspicions,” Dazai said. He fiddled with the bandages wrapped around his hand, extending underneath his gloves. “The client’s enemy has subordinates, some of whom have children at the school.”

“That’s just stupid,” Chuuya said. “Inviting the kids of your rival to your school.”

Dazai shrugged. “Be that as it may. You noticed how heavily monitored this place is.” 

Chuuya had. As they’d walked down to the village, he’d noticed the shifty gazes of people in red cloaks patrolling the walkways and around town. There was a heavy police presence in Hogsmeade, and it made sense to Chuuya. It was an easy place to attack, hold, and then launch attacks at Hogwarts from. Strategically, a good place to infiltrate and secure. The government knew this too. The chances, then, of one of the Dark Lord’s subordinates managing to get in was low. But…the students came down here every few weekends, didn’t they? Almost entirely unsupervised, just because it was completely infeasible to monitor that many wizards at once with the few people Hogwarts had on hand. And nobody would suspect a student. 

“Will you nullify the curse?” Chuuya asked, observing Dazai. 

His mouth was pressed into a thin line. For once, he looked almost conflicted. Dazai was almost always sure of himself, confident that his choice of action would be the best possible one. But this place was putting both of them on edge and off their game, Chuuya knew.

“Ideally, no. I could use her to flush the caster into the open whenever the next Hogsmeade weekend comes around. But we’re leaving for the coast today. There’s no time.”

Chuuya nodded sharply. Dazai was many things, he knew, but he was rarely ever wrong. Just another reason to hate the insufferable bastard. 

The waitress came back a few minutes later, bearing a bottle of wine, a glass, and a pot of coffee. “The sandwich is coming up soon,” she promised, and that’s when Dazai struck. Looking back, it had been a thing of beauty—a carefully orchestrated movement that was entirely on purpose and entirely an act, but to anyone watching, it was a clumsy man attempting to stand and tripping on his coat. “Shit—” Dazai cursed as he got up from his chair and tripped. He fell into the waitress, who was still putting down the pot of coffee. It splashed all over the both of them and Dazai grabbed the woman’s wrists to steady himself. In the scuffle, nobody would have noticed the quick flash of blue light and the kanji wrapping around the woman’s forearms under her long robes. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dazai apologized, straightening. 

“Your coat is stupid,” Chuuya informed him. “This is the second time today it’s gotten in your way.” 

He got up too, bowing to the waitress shallowly. “My sincere apologies for myself and my companion. He’s a mess. Are you okay?”

The woman smiled weakly. “It’s quite alright,” she said, sounding dazed. Chuuya slid his gaze to Dazai, who was observing her. The blank stare was gone from her eyes. 

Dazai tapped a quick, mindless pattern on the tabletop with his fingertips. It was a code they’d used in the preliminary stages of infiltration missions, so long ago that Chuuya had nearly forgotten. But the tapping noise pulled memories from where they’d been shoved into a dark box and left to rot. 

The sequence he used now was unique to Dazai and it meant, in as few words as possible ,that the game wasn’t over yet. 

“You don’t seem alright,” Dazai said, studying her. “Did I knock you on the head by accident?”

“No,” she murmured, turning quickly. “I’ll get a fresh pot,” she called back, scurrying into the kitchen. His dark gaze remained fixed on the place she had been, calculating as ever. 

Without any word of warning, Dazai turned too. “I’m going to clean myself up,” he said, walking away to the bathroom. Chuuya was left staring at the splashes of coffee on the table and wondering if the day would ever come when Dazai explained himself, the cryptic asshole. “Jeez,” he muttered. 

Dazai came back too quickly for him to have actually used the bathroom and with coffee still staining the collar of his shirt. He dumped a package wrapped in brown paper in front of Chuuya, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Don’t touch it,” he snapped as he reached out a hand. “There’s something in there that reeks.”

“I don’t smell anything,” Chuuya said, raising an eyebrow. 

Dazai scowled. “You know the way Potter’s magic feels? Mostly it’s just like an ability, but there’s something else in there, too.”

“No,” Chuuya said slowly. “It just feels like an ability.”

His face creased in irritation. “There’s something  _ else,  _ and it fucking stinks. This thing feels like that.”

“If you say so.”

Dazai grit his teeth. This was the most annoyed Chuuya had ever seen him, bar that one time he’d missed an important shot and gotten reprimanded by the Boss for letting the target get away. His expression was genuinely angry. With a snarl, he yanked off a glove and ripped the brown paper off to reveal a necklace—a gaudy, tacky necklace. “ _ Ningen shikkaku, _ ” Dazai hissed. Bright blue streamers of kanji exploded outwards when his hand made contact, wind whipping through the restaurant and nearly blowing Chuuya’s hat off. 

A second later, the wind and blue light died down, wiping the rage off of Dazai’s face and replacing it with a blank apathy. Carefully, he pulled his glove back on, flicked his hair out of his face, and locked eyes with Chuuya. “We should leave,” he said. 

Chuuya nodded silently, took out his wallet and paid for the coffee they’d spilled and the sandwich that didn't actually make it to the table. He left the alcohol unopened as he followed Dazai out the door and into the crisp, windy morning. Dazai’s back was very straight. 

“Am I a bad person, hatrack?” he asked suddenly, as he stared out into the somewhat-occupied street. 

Chuuya sneered on reflex. “You’re mafia,” he said. “You may have left, but you’re as mafia as me or Hirotsu or the Boss. I don’t think that’s something you can just forget.”

Dazai tilted his head up, looking at the sky. It had begun to drizzle, a sheen of rain falling from the clouds and scattering in the wind. He said nothing, waiting, as if he knew Chuuya had more to say. 

“You said once that you were looking for a reason, a reason to live. You fucked up that Akutagawa kid while you were looking, but I don’t think you found it. Then you left.”

Dazai still said nothing, his eyes closed and his face placid and relaxed. Chuuya could read nothing off of him, so he continued. “I know why  _ I’m _ here. It’s a job from the Boss, and it’s not something I could’ve passed off to a subordinate. I’m doing it for the Port Mafia, because I tied myself to their ship nine years ago. You’ve never tied yourself to anything, much less anyone. That’s why you’ve never found it.”

Dazai’s eyes opened a fraction, the amber in them startlingly bright against his sallow skin. He stood in the light drizzle, eyes partially open and immaculate white bandages standing out starkly from behind the collar of his coffee-stained coat. “I’m still looking, Chuuya.”

[Unseen, his hands clench inside his pocket.]

The silence between them stretched on and on until Chuuya couldn’t stand it anymore. He opened his mouth, glaring. “Tch. We have a mission to do, you tacky bastard. Stop standing in the rain like some jilted woman.”

“Chibi,” he whined, “you’re so mean!”

“We’ve got a train to catch. If you somehow forgot how to walk, I’ll leave without you,” he threatened, starting to move away.

“I’m coming,” Dazai grumbled. 

[One truly excessively long train ride, several bus hops later, and an uneasy rest at a seedy hotel later, and the two of them stand on a beach. It’s cold as hell, the freezing wind coming off the freezing water chilling Chuuya to the bone. He misses sunny Yokohama and he has begun to hate Britain with a passion rivaled only by his hatred for Dazai, who looks infuriatingly unbothered.]

“What are we looking for?” Chuuya bit out, deeply grateful for his gloves. He was sure that his fingers would have frozen together if he didn’t wear them religiously, and fingers that were stuck together were useful in exactly zero circumstances. 

Dazai let out a very dramatic sigh, looking out onto the sea. “A cave,” he responded. “If I remember right, it should be somewhere over there.”

He gestured toward an imposing cliff in the middle distance, all black and craggy against the grey morning. Chuuya cursed. “I hate the aesthetic of this fucking country,” he muttered. “All gloomy and shit. I bet you the Boss would love it.” He pictured the way Mori wrapped his cloak and blood-red scarf around him like a costume, like armor, and hid his smiles behind pale white teacups and gloves. He was danger cloaked in cloth and calculation bundled up in more layers of deceit than even Dazai. At least Dazai let his mask slip every so often, more frequently since leaving.

“Mori,” Dazai said, starting to pick his way along the beach toward the cliff, “would adore this country. Hey, chibi, can you even make it over there? Your short legs must be in so much pain.”

Just to make a point, Chuuya activated For the Tainted Sorrow. The ability surged up inside him, setting his blood afire with the promise of power. He ignored the pull of Corruption as he usually did, sending his ability to concentrate in his legs. “Shut up, bastard,” he growled, and made a boosted jump to fly hundreds of meters forward. The sand blew around him like a mini hurricane, probably getting in Dazai’s stupid fluffy hair. If it got between the bandages, he’d be in for a lot of chafing. Which, after all, he deserved.

He opened his mouth and yelled, the wind stealing his breath until he had to take a gulp of air. God, he loved his ability. 

Each jump brought him closer to the cliff until, half a minute later, he was standing next to a tall bit of rock. He amused himself while waiting for Dazai to ramble over the sand by knocking off bits of rock and floating them in the air, making a little orbiting system of planets and moons. It reminded him of the astronomical diagram he’d found in a book once. He had read it from cover to cover, devouring all the information on gravity and inertia and the fabric of space-time. 

For the Tainted Sorrow had the power to shift entire worlds, he’d realized, given enough energy and willpower. It was a heady sort of potential—more intoxicating than alcohol or nicotine and more of a high than the recreational drugs Kajii experimented with sometimes. With it singing through his veins, he felt absolutely unstoppable and utterly in control. 

Finally, Dazai meandered up to him. “I don’t see a cave,” Chuuya said, keeping the system of rocks spiraling around each other in an intricate dance. Only he knew the choreography, and he sincerely doubted even the bandage wasting machine could figure it out. But he paid it no mind, taking off a glove and laying it flat on the rock.

The activation of his ability always felt so strange, Chuuya realized. Where For the Tainted Sorrow was warmth and power and infinite possibility, No Longer Human was the absence of it. It was a void that sucked in air and stole Chuuya’s breath from his lungs the same way the wind had. He made sure to stay out of the radius of all the blue streams of light whipping around Dazai, not wanting the cold of that ability to dampen the adrenaline rushing through his veins. 

With a crack, part of the stone detached and slid to the side. “The client mentioned blood wards,” Dazai said absently, causing Chuuya to grimace. He followed Dazai inside. Inside was a large cavern with a placid, ominous lake, with a small island in the very center. There was something on the island—a basin, maybe? Chuuya kicked off from the ground, making a flying leap to land on the island. 

It  _ was _ a basin, and inside was a clear liquid. A locket lay at the very bottom of the pool, so he tried to reach in. The liquid somehow repelled his hand, no matter how much he increased its density in an effort to push through. 

“Shitty Dazai,” Chuuya called. “There’s a weird magic thing on the water in this bowl. Get your ass over here!”

Even from a distance, Chuuya could see Dazai shake his head. “So quick to jump the gun, chibi,” he yelled back. Chuuya watched impatiently as he poked at the water. Slowly and cautiously, he sat in the boat. A blast of blue ability shot out. 

He had just nullified any magic that would have moved the boat, Chuuya realized. 

There weren’t any oars, so he was forced to stick his hand in the water and paddle to the middle of the lake. Chuuya reserved the sight as a memory he would forever cherish—Dazai sitting in a tiny rowboat barely able to accommodate his long legs, furiously paddling for three minutes to reach the middle of the lake. He’d started laughing as soon as he’d seen Dazai’s carefully blank expression as he doggy-paddled. 

“You should have put your glove back on, bastard!” he yelled, cackling.

Dazai didn’t respond, his blank expression shifting to a grimace of disgust. “Chibi,” he said as he came closer, “I hate you.”

Chuuya winked at him, feeling strangely buoyed. “I despise you equally,” he said, gasping for air. Once the boat landed and Dazai carefully stepped out of it and onto the island, Chuuya gestured at the basin. “See, it won’t let me grab the locket.”

Dazai peered at it. “The client said the only way to get to the locket is by drinking it,” Dazai said. 

“What, you can’t just stick your hand in?” 

Dazai poked at the liquid. Sure enough, with a faint blue aura, his hand was allowed through. “Magical defenses are useless against me,” he said, and a grin spread across his face. “I still want to drink it.”

“That’s just idiotic, waste of bandages.”

“I’m curious! It’s not my fault hatrack only does as he’s told and nothing more.”

Chuuya sneered, hackles rising at the reminder that he really was an obedient dog sometimes, and turned away. “I won’t stop you. But if you get poisoned, I’m leaving you here to die.”

“Noted,” Dazai singsonged, producing a small cup from a pocket deep in his coat. He scooped some of the liquid and raised it in a mocking toast. “To chibikko’s continued obedience,” he said, and tossed the drink back like a shot. 

“Well?” Chuuya asked, raising an eyebrow. Dazai shrugged. “Tastes like your mom’s ass, slug-chan,” he said cheerfully, and drank another cup of the stuff as Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Bastard,” he sneered. “You know damn well I don’t have a mom.”

After tossing back the second cup, Dazai paled. He made a choking sound, dark eyes going wide, and Chuuya felt his stomach drop. Had something in that not been magical? A poison, maybe?

“Dazai!” He rushed forward, knocking the cup out of Dazai’s grip. “The  _ hell- _ ”

Dazai grinned at him and shrugged. “Just kidding,” he said cheerfully.

With a roar, Chuuya grabbed the back of Dazai’s coat and, twisting, chucked him into the lake. “Fucking  _ drown,  _ you piece of shit.”

He leaned against the basin, waiting for Dazai to inevitably surface with one of his shit-eating smiles firmly in place. Instead, he heard a quiet, “There’s a lot of dead bodies down here.”

“Do you want to  _ join  _ them?” Chuuya shot back, completely ignoring Dazai’s quiet affirmative to stomp down to the edge of the island. He kicked at the water, wondering if he could splash Dazai in the face with it. 

There was an ominous noise, like the snapping of a rubber band, as Dazai vaulted out of the water and onto the island, completely sodding wet. “Chuuya,” he said, eyes narrowed and scanning their surroundings. 

“Yeah, I see it too,” he muttered. Advancing on them on all sides, crawling out of the water were the shambling corpses of long-dead men and women, dressed in tattered clothes both magical and nonmagical. They reached out with spindly hands and moaned, forming a chorus of undead voices that made Chuuya wince. “I hate this country,” he repeated. 

With a hum, his ability activated, bathing the cavern in a fiery glow. In a blur of movement, he shot forward and swept the first of the creatures to the side with a roundhouse kick, knocking it into a couple of its fellows. They were knocked into the water with a loud splash. Another tried advancing on him from behind, but he whipped around and kicked it so hard in the jaw that its neck snapped back with an audible crack. Rather than falling, the thing just swayed, its head dangling, and continued advancing. 

“Motherfucker,” Chuuya cursed, his eyes wide in glee. They were just going to keep coming, he realized, and released a pulse of energy that knocked back several zombies and gave him room to move. With a roar, he jumped into the air, crouched on the cavern ceiling, and rocketed towards a clump of zombies. He landed on top of one of them, crushing it into a paste of gore and tattered cloth, and the impact pushed the others back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dazai slouching, cool as a cucumber and nearly as bored. Any zombie that came close he touched, the bright blue bands of No Longer Human pushing them back and causing them to collapse like puppets with cut strings. “Chuuya,” he yelled, “finish them off already! This is  _ boring. _ ”

“I’m trying, bastard!” Chuuya shot back, delivering a punishing side kick to the zombie creeping up on his right. “They keep getting up!”

Dazai let out a theatrical groan, collapsing another zombie with a negligent wave of his hand. “They’re  _ zombies, _ ” he stressed. “Don’t you have a lighter on you? You’re a goddamn addict!”

“It’s a tiny lighter!” Chuuya shot back, driving his fist through the skull of another zombie. He’d had to reinforce it with his ability or his fist wouldn’t have gone through at all. Some sort of weird imperviousness to physical damage kept stopping his blows from doing as much damage as they should. He leapt upwards and over the heads of several zombies, flipping to crouch next to Dazai within his circle of piling corpses. 

“My ability generates wind,” Dazai said, “and they’re flammable.” He eyed Chuuya with an expression that said he thought Chuuya was an idiot.

With a start, Chuuya realized that he’d collapsed corpses in a ring around them. If they could get the fire to spread, leaping from corpse to corpse, there’d be a circle of fire to drive them back and hopefully kill most of them. “Operation Grey-Haired Crone _ , _ ” Dazai muttered. 

His feral grin widened as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a lighter. “You know me too well, shitty Dazai,” he said, clicking it to let the tiny flame bloom. Dazai narrowed his eyes and activated his ability on two zombies, both hands outstretched. The wind whipped around them as Chuuya concentrated, drawing on as much control as he could, on the particles of gas inside the lighter. He spread them out with a haze of For the Tainted Sorrow, letting each catch fire and blow like embers onto the bodies piled in a ring. 

The firestorm that they’d generated was insanely huge, with billowing towers of flame stretching from the bodies to halfway up to the ceiling. The zombies made strange keening noises as the fire and light drove them back, back into the water. Once they’d retreated, thy didn’t come back out. 

Also, it smelled like burned flesh. Not exactly Chuuya’s favorite smell, but it was one he was well acquainted with. “I think we burned the boat,” he grumbled, tugging the collar of his coat to cover his mouth and nose somewhat. 

Dazai looked over at the burning remnants of the boat left on the side and grimaced, before turning to Chuuya with a disgruntled expression. “You’ll have to carry me,” he said morosely. 

Chuuya exploded into sputtering outrage. “ _ Carry you?  _ Are you shitting me? Just swim across, mackerel!” 

He would not. He refused. He was not going to haul shitty Dazai’s skinny, waterlogged ass over the lake. Not when the bastard couldn’t ever be bothered to take him to the extraction point and certainly not since a single brush of his skin would send both of them tumbling into the water, where literal zombies were swimming around underneath. 

“I don’t like it either,” Dazai pointed out.

“I like it even less, you asshole! You’re heavy!”

Dazai affected a hurt expression. “Is chibi calling me overweight?I’ll have him know that I’m firmly in the underweight category after the last time Yosano-sensei gave me a checkup.”

“What do your terrible eating habits have to do with literally  _ anything?!  _ I’m not carrying you over the lake full of zombies!” Chuuya growled, hopping onto the wall just to prove a point. He started walking and Dazai let out a long, dramatic sigh. “I guess that means when you get back to Japan, you’re going to have to explain to the President that I starved to death on an island in the middle of a lake,” he murmured pitifully. “Poor President. And what will Atsushi do without his senpai? And Kunikida will die of low blood pressure because I won’t be there to induce his hypertension….”

“You’re the opposite of convincing, dickhead,” Chuuya yelled over his shoulder, still walking. 

“And you’ll have to tell Mori you had the only way to stop Q killed….”

Chuuya stopped, picturing that conversation in his head, and turned around. “It’s gonna have to be bridal style,” he said, scowling. “Otherwise I’ll touch you.”

Dazai’s depressed face told Chuuya he’d realized that too.

“We’ll never speak of this again,” Chuuya declared, hauling Dazai into his arms. Christ, he was heavy, even if he was a skinny bastard. It was probably the waterlogged coat. Dazai’s stupidly spindly legs dangled over the side of Chuuya’s arms and his head lolled back, pointedly looking anywhere but at him.

“Agreed,” Dazai muttered, fiddling with the gloves he’d just put back on and crossing his arms. 

Chuuya couldn’t extend his density ability to Dazai as he stepped back onto the wall, so Dazai’s weight dragged him down in the direction of actual gravity. It made for a long and uncomfortable couple minutes as Chuuya painstakingly kept his forearms away from the small slivers of skin that Dazai had exposed to air. And his face, and his hair. A couple of times, the fluffy mass nearly brushed against his clothes, sending Chuuya flinching backward and nearly dropping Dazai. 

“I fucking hate you,” Chuuya said, resisting the urge to just drop him into the lake and let him drown. 

“Likewise,” Dazai said, eyes closed. 

Finally, Chuuya reached the entrance of the cave and unceremoniously dropped Dazai to the ground. “Ow,” he whined, sitting up. 

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” Chuuya snapped, jumping onto the sand and sending a spray of it up into Dazai’s face out of sheer spite. 

“Hey, hey, slug, aren’t you forgetting something?” Dazai asked from behind. Chuuya turned his head slightly to see Dazai spinning the locket around his finger. 

“Why do you want me to keep it?”

“The client wants me to kill it in front of him, for some reason,” Dazai said, catching it in his gloved palm and tossing it to Chuuya. “You keep it. I might touch it accidentally and then twinkly-sensei will be displeased.”

“Tch.” Chuuya caught the locket as it flew through the air and dropped it in a coat pocket. “You owe me a lighter, bastard.”

Dazai squawked in outrage. “It was a necessary maneuver!” he shot back, gracefully getting to his feet. He brushed the sand from his pants and tucked his hands in his pockets, infuriating shaggy hair falling back into place. “Otherwise, chibi, you’d have been eaten by zombies.”

Chuuya sneered. “It was still  _ my  _ lighter,” he pointed out. 

“I know for a fact that neko-sensei confiscated your cigarettes when she confiscated your alcohol,” Dazai said mildly, falling into step beside him. “You don’t have anything to light.”

“I’m going to get them back,” said Chuuya. He scowled. “How do you know that, anyway?”

Dazai shrugged. “Easy. I picked the lock on her cabinets in her office since the magical alert wards don’t work on me.” His gloved hand emerged from his pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes. Chuuya grabbed for it, and surprisingly, Dazai let him. When he flipped it open, though, it was empty. “The hell did you do with them?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up.

“Dumped them in the inferno when we were fighting the zombies,” Dazai said easily, and Chuuya lunged, shrieking. “Those were  _ good  _ cigarettes, you piece of shit!” He tried to knee the obnoxious man in the gut but Dazai danced away, a satisfied smile stretching across his stupid face. “You owe me cigarettes and a lighter now.” 

He went in for a roundhouse kick but Dazai leapt, springboarding off his leg to flip over his head in a whirl of water droplets. 

“You know it’s pointless, hatrack,” Dazai said, clicking his tongue as he landed in a crouch. “You’ll never hit me.”

“Bet,” Chuuya spat, the hum of his ability’s activation splitting the quiet of the beach. He lunged for Dazai again, anticipating his dodge sideways. He twisted in midair to dip his hand in the sand and flicked upward, boosting the sand slightly so the grains flew into Dazai’s face. With him distracted for a split second, Chuuya drove his other hand into Dazai’s stomach, sending him flying backward. “That was for my fucking cigarettes!”

Dazai dug his feet in, skidding to a stop. Chuuya eyed him from his crouching position. The bastard straightened, shook his head slightly, and let out a long sigh. “Meh,” he said, lifting his head. His gaze had gone flat and cold. “You call that a punch?”

Chuuya bristled, his ability flaring with his temper. He was leaping forward, reading to bash Dazai’s stupid face in, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He stopped immediately. Only a few people knew his phone number, after all.

He stood up, took the phone from his pocket, and flipped it open. “Nakahara,” he said tightly. 

“Chuuya,” said an oily, familiar voice, and he let his shoulders slump. “Boss,” he replied. “I didn’t recognize the number.”

“Elise broke my old phone,” Mori sighed, before his tone grew serious. “I have a job for you.”

[A day later, the fading light of afternoon streams in through the headmaster’s windows. Dazai sits slumped in a chair with Chuuya standing next to him, acutely aware that even with Dazai sitting down, he’s only about a head taller. It makes him more annoyed than the mere presence of Dazai, and his phone is still burning a hole in his pocket. The locket lays on the table in front of them.]

“Shall I do the honors, headmaster?” asked Dazai, pulling off one of his gloves. The man nodded, lacing his fingers underneath his chin. Not for the first time, Chuuya eyed the black, flaking skin of his right hand. He’d never mentioned exactly what had done that to him and what it meant, but Chuuya was in no position to ask. 

Dazai pressed a finger to the locket. Chuuya braced himself for the windy blast of blue light and kanji, but, strangely nothing appeared. Dazai furrowed his brows, took the locket into his hand, and clicked it open. A note fell out, written in English. But judging from the rapidly paling complexion of the client and Dazai’s interested hum, it was something entirely unexpected. “Chibi,” Dazai said. 

“What?” he snapped. 

“We fought zombies for nothing,” he said, looking far too pleased. “It’s a fake.”

Chuuya leaned forward, gripping the backrest of Dazai’s chair, to peer at the note. He couldn’t actually read it, obviously, but he recognized the letters at the bottom. “Who’s R.A.B.?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

The client sighed. “I was afraid of this,” he murmured. “From the description, I assume that refers to Regulus Arcturus Black. He was a Death Eater in the war, but he disappeared several months after the conflict started. His brother assumed he’d displeased his master somehow and been eliminated.”

“So, would the brother have the real thing?” Chuuya asked, but Dazai was the one to shake his head. “Black. Sirius Black, headmaster?”

At the man’s nod, Dazai slid his gaze to Chuuya. “He died a few months ago,” he said blandly. “Death Eater attack.”

“And how would  _ you  _ know?” Chuuya asked. But he knew the answer already. Dazai was the sort of person who knew things he really shouldn’t, because nobody assumed the harmless looking guy with bandages could mean any harm. And also because he was good at sticking his pointy nose where he wasn’t wanted. 

“Easy,” said Dazai. “I asked Potter.”

Chuuya made a disbelieving sound. 

“I asked him before we left. Black was his godfather.”

“Poor kid,” Chuuya muttered, slightly more sympathetic. The client, who Chuuya had almost forgotten existed, made an assenting noise. “There will be an Order meeting at Sirius’s house over the winter break. You can search for the locket then,” said the client. “For now, please try to stay within the castle. There are people in the government who are not pleased with the handling of the Gringotts affair.”

“If you wanted us to be stealthy, you should have said that from the beginning,” Chuuya sniffed. “We’ll be going, then.” He turned, adjusting his hat to fit more comfortably on his head as he strode out. He heard Dazai’s vapid “Bye, twinkly-sensei!” before the moron caught up to them, descending the stairs a step behind. 

“What was that phone call about?” he wondered aloud. 

Chuuya twisted his head slightly and smirked, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Hey, mackerel, you want to cause some trouble?”

“With you? Not really. But you’ll drag me along for the ride anyway,” Dazai sighed, sounding resigned. But Chuuya hadn’t missed the glint of amusement and curiosity spark in his dark eyes. He turned back around, continuing to walk down the staircase, uncaring of Dazai’s gaze, boring a hole into the back of his skull. He was being paid to raise hell, so he was going to be damn sure to make the most out of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operation "grey haired crone" references one of Chuuya's poems entitled "Sad Morning", in which it says "o unknown fire/bursting in air". I thought it was fitting.
> 
> Also, I was looking for a quote to start this chapter off and IRL Akutagawa has the most *depressing* lines in his books. Was he ok?? I mean probably not but like??? IRL Dazai was the one who committed suicide but his quotes are not as depressing as Aku's. 
> 
> Favorite Aku quote though: "I have heard unsavory rumors about you and the umbrella-maker's daughter."


	9. Sabotage

#  **Chapter Nine: Sabotage**

“My times that passed away

have turned my heart to gold.”

“In Mourning for the Summer” by Michizou Tachihara

[Deep within the Forbidden Forest, the centaur herd is setting up for their bi-weekly astronomy sessions in a clearing. The moon is bright, but not full, and the stars wheel above their heads. Several centaurs sit on the grass, legs folded beneath them, and are already gazing up at the stars. There are two foals with them, one with dark hair the color of earth and the other, their pale mirror. It is a rare occasion for twin centaurs to be born, and Magorian keeps a wary eye on them.]

The two foals, Andryn and Fedja, sat at the edge of the clearing. The middle was, of course, reserved for their most accomplished and prolific seers. If Firenze hadn’t been a filthy traitor, he likely would have occupied a spot in the center. Magorian was watching the foals. Centaurs tended to exhibit talent for their particular brand of divination at a young age, and there hadn’t been twins in the herd since Magorian’s childhood. 

His suspicion was proved right when Andryn, the darker twin, gasped. His head was tilted up at the sky in rapt wonder. Magorian listened silently as he nudged Fedja with a hand. “They changed,” he whispered reverently, gesturing at the Pegasus constellation. 

“What are you on about?” Fedja said irritably, squinting at his brother’s wild gesticulations. “They look the same as a few days ago.”

“No, no, look, they shifted slightly. And then, in conjunction with Cassiopeia…” Andryn trailed off, his face alight in glee. “Trouble for the humans,” he said. “So much trouble.”

Fedja peered at his brother’s face, then up at the sky. With a jolt, his pale blue eyes widened. “I see it,” he whispered, but where Andryn was smiling, he had a horrified expression on his young face. “Andryn, I see death. So much death, humans in cloaks falling, and the sigil of a snake burning away into blue and red fire.”

It was Andryn’s turn to scowl at his twin. “What are  _ you  _ on about?” he asked. “I see them trashing a statue, and burning paper, and the shattering of glass. I don’t see  _ death. _ ”

Magorian decided it was time to intervene. He stepped over, his hooves making no sound on the dewy grass, until he towered over the two foals. “Andryn, Fedja,” he rumbled, crossing his arms. “You must remember that when one sees something in the stars, it is just as valid as another’s prophecy. It is likely you are seeing two different places, in two different points of time.”

Andryn nodded, the black pools of his eyes still unfocused. “I understand,” he said faintly, gaze still fixed on the night sky. Fedja was more solemn and grounded, frowning. “The humans are going to die,” he said plaintively. 

“It’s not our concern,” Magorian replied. “The affairs of humans never are.”

“I hear it,” Fedja said then. Magorian’s eyebrows shot up. Centaurs almost never had auditory divination capabilities. All of their prophecies in the last century had been entirely visual, coming either from a dream or from the dance of stars overhead. “Hear what?” he asked cautiously, part of him hoping that Fedja was mistaken or exaggerating.

“A voice,” said Fedja. “It’s familiar. From a few days ago, the screams heard at the school. He’s yelling again.”

Magorian rolled his eyes. “Humans are always shouting,” he pointed out, and Fedja shrugged half-heartedly before returning his stare to the sky. Knowing he’d get no more out of them, as they were deep within the seeing trance, he backed away and returned to his place in the clearing. With a sigh, he folded his own legs underneath him and tilted his head up. Perhaps the stars would tell him what the twins were seeing, though he sincerely doubted it. Regardless, it was not a centaur’s place to defy fate. 

Only to watch, and to bear witness. 

[Ron is sitting in the Gryffindor common room, staring at something in his hand. His blue eyes are narrowed in thought. Hermione sits next to him, rubbing at her temples in frustration, while Harry seems utterly unbothered. He is thinking about his lesson with Chuuya the previous day, when he managed to hit three bullseyes and didn’t actually miss a single target. He’s replaying Chuuya’s congratulatory, if begrudging, clap on the shoulder.]

Hermione looked at Ron, scowling fiercely. “And you’re  _ sure  _ you didn’t buy them?” she said sharply. Ron shook his head. “And these definitely aren’t from any of my brothers,” he replied. “That just wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Ron, it doesn’t make any sense regardless!” Hermione said, exasperated. She turned to Harry. “Come on, back me up here?” Harry slid his gaze over, his hair sticking up in every direction and making him look rather like he’d stuck a fork into a socket. Hermione could feel each and every one of her brain cells dying as he looked at her blankly. “I wouldn’t think too much of it,” he said finally, running a hand over his ridiculous hair. 

Hermione let out an inarticulate scream of frustration. “But what does it  _ mean? _ ” she asked, pleading to whatever unforeseen entity had gotten her this far. She poked at the large roll of bandages cupped in Ron’s hand, identical to the ones that Dazai wrapped around his limbs. 

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Who says it has to mean something?” he demanded, holding the bandages protectively.  _ Merlin, he’s already attached to them,  _ Hermione realized with growing dismay. She scrubbed at her face with her sleeve. She did not have the capacity to deal with this, not with the stress of their sixth year and the imminent confrontation with Voldemort already weighing on her shoulders. Especially with two foreign ability users, both part of the mafia at some point in their lives, wandering the school unsupervised. 

“Ron,” Hermione said, “it’s a gift from Dazai. Of course it means something. It’s a message that I am far too stressed out to decode!” She groaned at the blank look on Ron’s face. “You found it on your bedside table, yes?” she asked slowly. He nodded. 

“This means,” she said, “that Dazai somehow got into Gryffindor tower and into your  _ bedroom  _ without alerting the Fat Lady, the prefects, or the professors. The last time that happened, it was Sirius Black, widely assumed to be a murderer. And you’re not worried at all?” 

“It’s Dazai,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “He’s harmless.”

Hermione goggled at him, unable—and decidedly unwilling—to process that statement. Even Harry was giving Ron an odd look, and Harry was the most oblivious person she’d ever met. Not for the first time, she regretted not telling her friends about her conversation with Dazai in the library. She’d shared some of her suspicions about him, but she hadn’t described the conversation in detail. Just thinking about it now made her pulse race with some forgotten fear. 

She’d wanted to tell them, of course, but that would give away her plans before she was ready to share them. Knowing Harry and Ron, they’d probably shoot her down before she had a chance to build a case for them, so she’d kept quiet. As a result, apparently Ron thought Osamu Dazai, who was a  _ literal _ murderer, was harmless. 

Sometimes, she hated her life. 

Ron tossed the roll up into the air and caught it. “I wonder what he wants me to do with them,” he mused. Hermione resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment. She had been doing that a lot lately. 

“Maybe,” she said, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm herself down, “you should pretend you never saw the bandages.”

Ron gave her a confused expression. “Why would I do that?” he asked, genuinely confused, and Hermione resisted the urge to make another sarcastic comment. Or resort to physical violence. The pull grew stronger when she saw Harry smirking at her, probably fully aware of how much self-control she was exercising. He wasn’t even helping her at all and her hands were itching to put themselves around Ron’s stupid neck and just squeeze.

She glared at him before turning back to Ron, her mouth falling open despite herself. In the time it had taken to notice Harry’s infuriating smirk, glare at him, and turn back, he’d somehow gotten the bandages around both of his arms. “Hey, I look kinda cool!” Ron said, staring at them. He raised his forearms up to take a better look.

He looked, in her professional, unbiased opinion, utterly ridiculous. But rather than saying anything, she grit her teeth and put her face in her hands. “Harry,” she said, her voice impressively steady. Harry tilted his head at her and she blew out another breath. “Please be my witness when Ron has gotten himself into some ridiculous bit of trouble and I say I tried to stop him.”

“Will do,” he agreed easily, to Ron’s outrage. “Why would I be in trouble, ‘Mione?” he demanded. He was kinda cute when he was angry, a distant thought speeding through Hermione’s brain said, and was promptly and viciously ignored. Hermione only reached out to pat his knee. “You poor boy,” she said, completely unsympathetic. 

[Dazai and Chuuya are on the train again, which Chuuya is starting to get extremely sick of. Especially since Dazai is utterly incapable of staying awake on the long, monotonous rides, while Chuuya is incapable of falling asleep surrounded by so many potential hostiles. Part of him is very jealous of Dazai’s ability to fall asleep absolutely anywhere. He just wishes it wasn’t on his shoulder. His arm is starting to go numb.]

“Hey, hey, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya muttered to the lump of bandages collapsed against his side. “Jeez, why are you so tired whenever we’re traveling?” He nudged at him with his arm. He was starting to get feeling back at the cost of his own comfort, because with blood came pins and needles as his circulation was restored. And Dazai, underweight as the bastard was, was still heavy. It was probably all the extra mass above his neck, Chuuya thought uncharitably, from his fat head. 

“Slug-chan,” Dazai said, muffled by Chuuya’s jacket folds, “I can’t sleep in that castle.”

“Why the hell not?” he snapped. He could sleep just fine in the castle, with its stone walls and magical defenses meaning that if someone managed to get past the door, he would know. He supposed that wouldn’t work for Dazai but it couldn’t have been because he was scared of getting attacked. Potions didn’t work on him and spells were less than useless. 

“Too much magic,” Dazai said sleepily, before shifting slightly and burying his face in Chuuya’s shoulder. With a sharp, long-suffering sigh, he stopped asking. It seemed that Dazai was more sensitive to the ambient magic in the air, probably as a side-effect of his ability. Chuuya had never been more glad to have an ability that wasn’t constantly on. 

“We’re almost here, dickhead,” he said, reaching up to adjust his hat from where it had tilted slightly. 

With a strange slowness, Dazai detached himself from Chuuya’s shoulder like the fucking limpet he was and pulled up to a sitting position. “We’re going to the ministry, right, chibi?” he asked, far too perky for someone who had been half asleep literal moments before. Chuuya raised his eyebrows at him. “And how the hell did you know? I didn’t tell you shit.”

Dazai rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should be so obvious,” he said, sniffing. “Mori called you with a mission, and the Port Mafia can’t just be here for money. You’re here for influence, and since the client seems to be the leader of his own minor revolution, the next step would be to sabotage the current regime.” He slid his gaze to Chuuya, a glint in his dark eyes. “It’s what I would do.”

Chuuya grit his teeth. “Yeah, alright. The Boss wants me to mess around in their building. Minor inconveniences, cause a scandal, trash the place. What we did to those old yakuza, basically.”

“That was a terrible mission,” Dazai said, adjusting his gloves slightly. “I got shot!”

“Don’t you  _ want  _ to die?”

Dazai looked distinctly aggrieved. “But not in a way that causes pain!” he said, lurching to his feet at the exact moment the train pulled into the station. “A good suicide puts no burden on anyone and doesn’t make me suffer.”

Chuuya’s eyebrows rose. Those were surprisingly reasonable conditions for a suicide, he realized, before stopping that thought in its tracks. The bastard was probably playing mind games with him, as he usually was. With that in mind, he stopped out of the train carriage, hot on Dazai’s heels. He tilted his head up to check the sky. It was steadily darkening, but not quite dark enough for a covert mission yet. “We’ve got time,” he muttered. 

“Great! You’ll have time for recon, hatrack,” Dazai said cheerfully, striding off at a fast clip. 

“Me? Recon?! Didn’t I bring you so you could do the grunt work?” Chuuya yelled, stomping up to him. Dazai glanced at him. “But it’s your mission,” he said, plaintive. “I couldn’t dream of muscling in on your operation.”

“You should have stayed at Hogwarts if you weren’t going to be helpful,” he hissed, clenching his fists inside his pockets. Dazai shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, before tapping a finger to his chin. “But then Chuuya isn’t at Hogwarts to keep me in line, probably for a whole day! Then I could dump all of Chuuya’s secret alcohol stash that he hides from neko-sensei, and also steal his student away...Chuuya wouldn’t like that, would he?” 

“You’re a piece of shit,” Chuuya deadpanned. 

Dazai hummed infuriatingly, and Chuuya had to resist the urge to kick him into a wall. That probably wouldn’t go down well with the London populace. 

Dazai, walking in front of him, stiffened slightly. His pace had a slight hesitation to it, so small that only someone who’d known him for years would have noticed it. Something was wrong, and his next words confirmed his suspicions.

“Chuuya,” said Dazai, still using the light and airy tone he had from before. “Do you remember the time we saw that rabid dog fall into the lake?”

Back when Dazai had started training Akutagawa, they’d done an exercise involving combat on a boat. He’d roped Chuuya in with the promise of free cigarettes and he’d watched as Dazai blocked a strike from Rashoumon then flashed in close, punching Akutagawa in the gut. He’d been so surprised by the blow that he’d stumbled backward, hit the guardrail, and toppled over with a splash. Chuuya had to fish him out after and decided, free cigarettes or no, he wasn’t going to watch Dazai beat up the poor kid for his own sadistic shits and giggles. 

But that wasn’t the important part of the story. No, Dazai was referencing the fact that they’d been followed by Akutagawa’s sister, Gin, who they hadn’t noticed had been on the boat until after Chuuya fished her brother out. They had a tail. 

“Yeah, I do. Was it just the one? I can’t remember if he had a friend or not that jumped in after him,” Chuuya said, his own voice casual. Dazai shook his head. “Just the one dog,” he said. “He tried biting me, remember? But he only had one tooth, so it didn’t even break the skin.”

“Would’ve sucked if he had,” Chuuya pointed out. 

“But you were there to push me out of the way, right, Chuuya?” Dazai said. 

_ Message sent and received, asswipe _ , Chuuya thought. One person following them, with only one weapon as far as Dazai could tell. A knife, probably. He wanted Chuuya to take care of them, too, the lazy bastard. He checked his surroundings out of the corner of his eye, not seeing anyone overtly threatening. But Dazai had sharper eyes than he did. 

Dazai kept walking through the London crowds, as nonchalant as ever, before turning into a quieter sidestreet. Chuuya followed behind, his posture relaxed but his ability humming under his skin, close to surfacing. They turned into an alleyway that connected this street to another, and that was when Chuuya heard a sharp scuff of a shoe in the dust. He turned, crouching low to sweep their assailant off their feet. 

But the attacker didn’t miss a beat, tucking into a roll and landing in a similar crouching position. With his ability activated, Chuuya shot forward on the offensive. He tried to tag them on the shoulder, but in a whir of cloth and— _ shit, there’s the knife _ —metal, they dodged fluidly out of the way. Dazai, the piece of shit, leaned against the wall watching. Whatever. He didn’t need him for this. 

With a snarl, Chuuya swung with his fist. The attacker dodged that, too, but was too slow to miss the kick aimed directly at their chest. The sheer force of it knocked them into the wall and, with a hum, stuck them there in a flare of red light. “Who the fuck are you?” Chuuya spat, advancing. The person they’d stuck to the wall looked fairly andogynous, with brown hair and wearing civilian clothes. Utterly unremarkable, but for the wicked-looking knife in their left hand. 

“I said,” Chuuya growled, “who the fuck are you?”

The person stared at him, mouth firmly clamped shut with a mutinous look in their dark eyes. Dazai peeled himself from the wall to stand beside Chuuya, his mafia persona sliding over him like a second skin. “You’re one of Christie’s,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. 

The person glared at him. “And so what if I am?” they spat, arms quivering as they struggled against the binds of For the Tainted Sorrow. 

“Nothing,” said Dazai. “But your boss isn’t going to be very happy that we found you here. This attack wasn’t sanctioned by her, was it?”

The person shut their mouth with a click, muscles in their jaw flexing. Dazai chuckled darkly. “I see. Someone else sent you.”

They refused to reply once again, face set into determined lines, and Chuuya sighed. “Let’s just kill them and be done with it.” As it crept closer and closer to nightfall, they wasted more and more time. Besides, that person was obviously some mook who’d been dragged into an internal power struggle, if the bastard was right. And he was almost always right about things like this. 

Dazai slid his amber gaze over to lock eyes with Chuuya. “London police is far less forgiving of turf wars than the ones in Yokohama,” he said dryly. “I doubt we’d be able to escape unscathed.”

Chuuya scowled. That was inconvenient. “Knock them out then. We have places to be, shithead.”

Dazai blew out a breath, irritated, before rearing back and punching their assailant in the mouth. They slumped against the wall, clearly out of it. With a dismissive sigh, Chuuya deactivated his ability and let them fall to the ground, hidden in the shadows of the alley. “Fucking Clock Tower bastards,” Chuuya muttered as they left the alley. His pulse was still racing but Dazai looked cool as a cucumber, annoyingly. “How’d you even know?”

“If they weren’t one of hers, they wouldn’t have responded to the name,” he said dismissively, his gaze thoughtful. “But as we’ve seen, Christie seems to have a no-interference policy with our client in play. Otherwise we would have been attacked in force with a whole squad of ability users, probably when we went to the cave.”

“It’d be suicide to send just one, especially one without a gift,” Chuuya muttered, knowing Dazai was right. 

“Precisely.”

By then, they’d reached the phonebooth that, according to the Boss, was the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. How the man had known, Chuuya had no idea. But he’d been given the specs for the basic layout of the building as well as knowledge of the main exits and entrances, dictated over the phone as they’d rode back to Hogwarts. Chuuya had a mental map of the place in his mind. 

He stepped inside the phonebooth, Dazai squishing in uncomfortably close, and dialed the numbers that spelled out “magic” in English.  _ How tacky,  _ he thought, his lip curling as a pleasant voice announced their transportation. “Try not to touch shit yet,” he snapped. “I don’t want to see what happens if we get caught between the real world and their government building.”

Dazai scoffed. “I don’t take orders from you,” he shot back, and Chuuya lifted an eyebrow. “A slow death in limbo is your preferred method of suicide?” he asked, trying not to bristle. He still had adrenaline coursing through his systems after the brief encounter, and Dazai, as always, was prodding at all of his buttons. 

Dazai didn’t answer as the phonebox asked, “Name and reason for visit?”

“Asagiri, on business,” Chuuya muttered, using the fake name he tended to use when traveling, and Dazai chirped from behind him, “Christie, for pleasure!”

Two badges shot out. Chuuya stared at his, incredulous, before using his ability to crush it into a ball. He left it behind in the booth when it stopped at what was presumably the atrium. Of course Dazai affixed his own badge to his coat. “If they keep records, Clock Tower’s going to be pissed,” Chuuya said quietly. 

“All the better,” Dazai shot back. He surveyed the atrium, with its fireplaces on one side and the giant, incredibly tacky statue in the middle. “This place,” he said, before trailing off. He walked closer to the statue to examine it. “Only wizards,” Chuuya sneered, taking in the blatant colonialist sentiment with a raised eyebrow. “Anyway, top to bottom or bottom to top?”

Dazai’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “Chibi, you’re probably used to being the bottom, so why not start from there?”

Chuuya’s eyes widened as he turned to stare at Dazai. “What the  _ fuck—” _

Dazai had preemptively jumped away, grin stretching across his stupid, idiotic face. “No fighting,” he sing-songed, “that might trigger whatever shitty security they have!”

“I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya growled, advancing with fists clenched and teeth bared. Dazai only winked and turned tail, fleeing to the stairs. With a cheeky salute, he opened the door and disappeared down a dark stairwell, Chuuya hot on his heels. “Get the hell back here!” he hissed, making a grab for his stupid coat. But, slippery as an eel, Dazai dodged and jumped down an entire flight of stairs. Stupid Dazai and his stupid knees and his stupid fucking  _ face _ . 

The stairwell spat them out into a strange room, with doors lining the walls. As soon as Dazai neared, the doors began to spin. They accelerated until Dazai pulled off one of his gloves and laid it on the wall with a frown, then they stopped. “If we’re wrecking things, may as well start here,” he said, looking back at Chuuya with a peculiar expression. 

Chuuya straightened out of the combat-ready crouch he’d dropped into on instinct. “You good, shitty Dazai?” he asked. Something was off about him. Never mind that he flipped between moods and masks seemingly at random—that was normal. But this stillness was the sort of thing Chuuya only saw when Dazai was confused. 

Dazai, true to form, ignored him and opened a door seemingly at random. He disappeared inside with a whirl of brown trenchcoat without looking back.

“Don’t just go charging in,” Chuuya said, rushing after him. He found himself in a square room, the walls lined by ascending stone benches. It was suddenly very cold. In the center of the room was an archway, leading to nowhere, with a black, tattered cloth fluttering in an unseen wind. It rested on a stone dais. 

He didn’t like this place. He didn’t like it at all. 

And his idiot partner was walking towards the archway as if the whole thing didn’t radiate death. “Dazai!” Chuuya snapped, but the man didn’t stop walking. If anything, he sped up. Cursing under his breath, Chuuya shot forward and grabbed his shoulder. “The fuck you doing, mackerel?”

Dazai stopped, but before Chuuya could even feel relieved, his head turned slowly. Chuuya sucked in a breath. His eyes were dead and completely devoid of light, his expression placid. But there was a longing in that gaze, for whatever lay beyond the archway. “Let me go,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

“Not until you tell me what you’re doing,” Chuuya said, tightening his grip. He was ready to sweep the idiot’s legs out from under him and haul him out of this room if he had to. Dazai had the muscle tone of an underweight, malnourished child. He could do it. He would. 

“Don’t you hear him?” Dazai asked. Chuuya could see he was holding himself upright out of sheer force of will. Under his hand, Dazai was straining towards the archway. 

“Hear what?”

Dazai’s eyes had gone wide and pleading. But they were still so blank, like the eyes of a doll or a corpse. For the first time in a very long time, Chuuya felt a frisson of fear go down his spine. This was not the adrenaline of a fight or the high of using his ability. No, this was  _ Dazai,  _ the shitty asshole who kept putting Chuuya in these situations. He knew fuck-all about magic but he knew one thing. He knew it the way you know when you’re looking at a chasm what would happen if you went over it. Going through that arch meant death. And he wasn’t about to let the idiot do that. 

“I don’t hear shit,” Chuuya said fiercely, bringing his other hand up to his other shoulder. “ _ Think,  _ dumbass. Use that fat head of yours. I can’t hear anything. You’re the only one who can and we’re in a  _ magical _ building.”

Dazai’s eyes narrowed somewhat, his slack mouth audibly clicking shut. He glanced at the archway again, then back to Chuuya. With a start, his whole body jolted into motion. He shoved Chuuya off with surprising strength and he was fully prepared to dart in front of him, keep him from getting to the dais, but Dazai turned the other way and sprinted back to the door. Chuuya tore off after him and nearly got the door slammed in his face. 

“What the hell, Dazai?” Chuuya snapped, shutting the door quietly behind him, but Dazai was standing facing the wall. His slight frame was quivering, with rage or fear, he couldn’t tell. 

With a snarl, Dazai’s head snapped up and he drove his fist forward into the wall. There was a sharp crack as at least one of his fingers broke. 

“Dazai!” Chuuya jerked him away from the wall. “What the  _ fuck—” _

Dazai turned his face to Chuuya, cradling his injured hand in the other, with a feral twist to his mouth. “I’m fine,” he said, panting. “I’m fucking fine.” He had a wild look in his eyes.

Chuuya watched as he rested his head on the wall, breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon. His hand began dripping blood onto the floor and all he did was let his arm hang, the red slowly staining the sleeve. 

“For fucks sake,” Chuuya said, rubbing a hand over his face. He grabbed Dazai by the collar and pushed him to a sitting position on the ground. He was surprised that the man let him, but his uncharacteristic behavior was carefully filed away as something to overthink later. Rather than dwelling on it, he reached into one of his many pockets to pull out a roll of bandages almost identical to the ones already wrapped around Dazai’s limbs. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered, taking Dazai’s injured hand. “This was supposed to be a simple sabotage mission.” He took his knife from his sheath and cut away the glove, which was absolutely covered in blood and unsalvageable.

Dazai didn’t show an ounce of emotion on his face as Chuuya carefully straightened, splinted, and wrapped his fingers, even though he was pretty sure he was in excruciating pain. With a sigh, he used the glove to mop up all the spilled blood and, using his ability, crushed into a dense ball of fabric. He put it in his pocket because evidence at the scene of the crime was not something the Port Mafia taught its operatives to leave behind, and wizards could probably do all sorts of freaky stuff with blood. 

It was then that Dazai moved of his own accord, bracing himself on the floor with his other hand and standing slowly, robotically, and taking a deep breath. “You done playing nursemaid, Chuuya?” he said, but there was no heat in his voice. Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Just thank me for not leaving you behind during your little psychotic episode,” he shot back. 

Dazai’s half-lidded eyes slid all the way shut for a split second too long for a blink, before he turned away from Chuuya. 

“Who did you hear?” Chuuya asked quietly. 

“It’s not important.”

“Don’t care, dickhead. If that’s the sort of shit that compromises you, I’m going to need to know.”

Dazai didn’t quite let his shoulders slump, but the stiffness in his spine relaxed somewhat. “I think you know already,” he said, and gestured at the English sign beside the door. “It’s called the Death Chamber.”

Chuuya glanced at the sign and barked out a hoarse laugh. “Of course,” he said, and adjusted his hat to sit better on his hair. “Come on, shitty Dazai. Maybe the next floor has stuff we can break.” He knew there were many more doors, but the last thing he wanted was to stay on this floor. Who knew what weird, magic suicide objects existed down here?

He started walking up the stairs when Dazai didn’t object, checking behind him a couple times to make sure he was following. They ended up in the atrium again, and Chuuya pressed the elevator button with a gloved finger. Dazai was silent on the strange trip up, despite the sideways and upwards and diagonal jolting of the elevator. It spat them out on the next floor, which contained a bunch of cubicles and offices.

“Here’s the plan,” Chuuya said, easily slipping into the leadership role even with Dazai oddly passive behind him. “Since you can actually read the language, you get to dig through files and pull out anything incriminating.”

“And you?” Dazai asked, raising an eyebrow. Chuuya cracked a grin. “I’m going to stick all their chairs to the ceiling.”

To his astonishment, the bastard  _ laughed.  _

It was only after Chuuya had screwed half the department’s chairs to the ceiling that he went over to Dazai, who was decidedly not looking through files. Instead, he was standing in front of a board with little meeting times scrawled in ink. Dazai was methodically wiping out each time and changing the schedule so multiple meetings overlapped and were at increasingly stupid times. Chuuya saw one posted for “12:65 am”. 

“You’re evil,” Chuuya said, not managing to keep the awe from his voice. Dazai smirked at him, clearly in his element. “I switched around a bunch of personal items,” he said. “So now, Ludo Bagman’s secret stash of whiskey is in Linda McKinnon’s desk and her sanitary items are sitting on Sean Davidson’s chair.”

“You’re evil,” Chuuya repeated, and Dazai chuckled. His eyes were alight with some unholy glee. “Hey, chibi!” he said, whirling around to face him. “Help me switch their nameplates, too?” he asked. 

Chuuya stared at him. “You tacky bastard,” he said. 

“That’s a yes?”

Chuuya did, indeed, spend the next several hours on several of the department floors switching around name tags. His ability let him quickly float them above the cubicles and between doors, then screw them in without a screwdriver. Dazai followed him, swapping around personal belongings, crumpling up reports seemingly at random, and upturning every single potted plant he could find. Chuuya wasn’t entirely sure when the maniacal giggling started, but by the time they’d reached the second floor, it was out in full force. 

On that floor, Dazai made a beeline straight for the most important-looking office. Chuuya, following behind, was treated to the sight of a perfectly organized desk. Everything on it was placed in neat lines and right angles. Dazai clapped his hands together, mindful of his injury, in apparent glee. “Chuuya,” he said, eyes sparkling. “I’m going to  _ ruin  _ this.”

Chuuya leaned against the doorway, watching with amusement as Dazai shifted each pen and paper so that every piece was slightly out of line, and arranged in such a way that fixing one angle would mess up another. It was the kind of horrifying, organized chaos only a genius could create. As the  _ pièce de résistance,  _ Dazai tilted the whole desk so it was at a slight angle to the door.

On the final floor, Dazai again made straight for the most important-looking office. Chuuya decided to let him do his thing and instead went into another office, but was shocked into silent horror as soon as he went in. The whole room was  _ pink,  _ a disgusting shade of pink that nearly triggered Chuuya’s gag reflex. There were pictures of cats on the walls, so many cats, and even plates with cats on them. Even Elise had better taste. 

The office offended him on sheer principle. “Dazai, I found something tackier than you,” he yelled over his shoulder, knowing the bastard’s sharp ears would hear.

He activated his ability with a sharp humming noise and proceeded to absolutely trash the place. 

He shattered all the stupid cat plates and ripped down the pictures of cats until they were absolutely unrecognizable. He broke two of the legs on the office chair and kicked the desk into the wall, splintering it into shards of wood that flew off and embedded themselves in the floor. A strange black quill fell out of one of the drawers, but he didn’t pay it any mind. He was too busy wrecking the cat figurines and tearing up her papers to care very much.

Once the place looked like an absolute warzone—or the Boss’s office after one of Elise’s tantrums—he left, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. He wandered into the office he’d seen Dazai entering, only to see the bastard lounging on top of the desk like he owned it. He held an ugly bowler hat in his good hand and was absently twirling it around a finger. 

He visibly perked up upon seeing Chuuya, and jammed the hat on his head. “We match!” he said cheerfully, before frowning. “I feel myself shrinking.”

Chuuya snatched the hat off his head, snarling, and compressed it into another fabric ball. “Bastard,” he muttered, and Dazai grinned openly. He brandished a bunch of papers in his hand. “Found some very interesting files,” he said. “Misuse of budget funds, keeping double books, vaguely threatening memos…” his grin widened. “How happy would Mori be if I leaked evidence of the Minister for Magic skimming?”

Chuuya smirked. “Extremely,” he said, before tilting his head. “Isn’t that a reason for you to  _ not  _ leak that?”

Dazai shrugged. “He’ll owe me a favor,” he said, folding up the paper and tucking it into his coat pocket. He jumped down from the desk, back to his customary relaxed slouch. “Hey, chibi,” he said, his expression thoughtful. “We should invert their ugly fountain.”

Chuuya laughed. They did end up inverting the ugly fountain, turning it upside down. Dazai had to nullify the enchantments on it so his ability didn’t slide off, but after, Chuuya had no problems flipping it and driving the skull of the metal wizard into the floor with a crack. 

“It looks less shitty, yeah?” Chuuya said, examining his handiwork.

Dazai sniffed. “I could’ve done better,” he said snippily, and Chuuya turned on him. “I’d like to see you try!” he snapped. But rather than snapping back, Dazai regarded him with an unnatural expression. He looked almost  _ fond,  _ which was disgusting on too many levels to contemplate. Sneering, Chuuya pushed past him to the exit. “We can catch the night train if we leave now, mackerel,” Chuuya said, hunching slightly. 

“Does chibi miss his bed?” Dazai said mockingly. 

“Shut up, you dick!”

[It is early morning when they reach Hogwarts. Chuuya ditches Dazai to go to sleep, but the other man goes for a walk in the halls. There is a restless humming in his blood. He cannot sleep. Invisible ghosts dog his every step, so unlike the Hogwarts ghosts that have taken to avoiding him. He can’t fathom why. If he were a ghost, permanently tethered to a half-life, he’d spend eternity searching for someone to break that tether. 

He finds himself on a higher floor in front of an empty stretch of wall. The magic in the air is denser here. He can feel it trying to cling onto his skin and finding no purchase, slipping off like water off a duck’s back. Dazai paces in front of the wall, trying to figure out what exactly the magic is trying to do. With the headmaster, it’s trying to get into his head, but it bounces off. With the book in the vault, it’s trying to grab hold of his limbs. 

With the archway, he hadn’t felt it at all until Chuuya had pointed it out. That had scared him. 

A door appears in the wall, and Dazai feels curiosity spark in his chest. This is why he indulges Hermione Granger, he knows, despite his half-hearted attempts to drive her off. They have that one thing in common.

Among other things. 

He opens the door, feeling the inherent magic of the room still sliding off his skin. The sensation is annoying, but he has gotten used to it the longer he spends in the castle. The room is filled with trash, odds and ends, and mountains of  _ stuff.  _ The sheer amount of it all, piled up against walls and made into isles, is staggering. 

Dazai wanders through the maze of broken and lost things, not really paying attention to where he’s going. A sparkle in the corner of his eye catches his attention, fleeting as a bird, and he turns. There is an ugly old tiara perched on a mountain of things, glittering faintly in the light. It feels like the cup had felt. Heavy. Old. And cloying like the split second of Corruption he felt when he touched Chuuya’s bare skin as it was active. 

Somehow, through sheer luck, he’s found one of the objects the client was so fixated on. He picks it up with his uninjured hand, the throbbing pain of the other preventing him from floating up into the clouds of his thoughts. In a blast of wind and the familiar feeling of his ability flaring, the tiara glows a bright blue.

Because Dazai can think of nothing better to do, he puts it on his head. It fits like it was made for him, and the thought makes him chuckle. He leaves the room soon after and wanders back to his room. He puts the tiara on his bedside table, takes a shower, and resolves to see the matron whenever he wakes up. He collapses onto the bed with a groan. 

For the first time in years, he had heard Oda’s voice. It had torn that wound open all over again, and he is bleeding all over the fucking floor.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, thanks to dark_hour_shenanigans for the centaur omake idea!  
> (SKIP THE NOTE IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE MANGA LOL, SPOILERS)
> 
> _________  
> No, it's not a coincidence that this chapter, which is about sabotage, has a quote by Tachihara.   
> I'm not salty.   
> No, of course not.  
> (ﾉ °益°)ﾉ 彡 ┻━┻  
> _________


	10. Meetings

#  **Chapter Ten: Meetings**

“I’ve had so many troubles on my mind, sometimes it feels as if my heart’s on fire.”

“Separate Ways” by Higuchi Ichiyo

[Dazai walks into the Great Hall the next morning, looking mildly well-rested, with a tiara on his head. Chuuya looks half-dead and is slumped at the staff table, watching Dazai with a gimlet eye.]

“Chuuya!” Dazai exclaimed, bouncing over with way too much energy. “Look what I found!”

Chuuya raised his head slightly, taking in the sight of Dazai with one hand done up in plasters and bandages and, of all things, a ratty old tiara jauntily perched on his head. “Not today,” he moaned into the table. If he bashed his brains out, would the bastard go away? Maybe he could break his other hand? But no, he needed that to use his ability. Unless...then Dazai would have to touch this with his feet. And that was a thought too disgusting to contemplate.

“There, there,” the headmaster said amicably. 

Chuuya was very much inclined to kick the crazy bastard into the wall, but was pretty sure that was a violation of contract and he did not want to assault an old man that morning. Perhaps another morning. If his headache didn’t get any better. 

“Slug-chan!” Dazai said, plopping into the unfortunately empty seat next to Chuuya. Why was that seat empty? Hadn’t the small professor been sitting there? Where the hell had he gone?

“Mr. Flitwick just left,” Dazai informed him, as if reading his mind. “He had very important places to be.”

Of course he did.

Chuuya muttered something unintelligible. He was trying to say “get the fuck away from me”, but it came out as a muffled, garbled mess. Not today,  _ please.  _ He was literally the incarnation of the god of destruction. Couldn’t he have one morning untainted by the piece of shit? Just one morning. That’s all he was asking. He missed his quiet apartment with its fully stocked cabinet of wine and his drawer of cigarettes with a burning passion. Hell, he’d take Kouyou’s fussily traditional apartment over this place, because Dazai had never set foot in it. 

“Do I look pretty, chibi?” Dazai asked. Chuuya slid his gaze up to glare balefully at him. The bandaged bastard had adjusted the tiara somewhat to tilt slightly to the right, and he was grinning like the lunatic he was. 

“You look like dogshit,” Chuuya informed him, before slumping back down to knock his head against the wood. He could  _ feel  _ the man gearing up for a reply when he heard a shriek. At first, he figured it was an auditory hallucination brought about by not enough sleep and half of a hangover, but when he lifted his head again, he saw a ghost barrelling toward the staff table. It was the woman who never spoke but lurked in the tower, and she was wailing like a banshee. 

“That’s my mother’s!” she howled, lunging at Dazai. 

“Don’t touch him—” Chuuya started to say, but part of her fingers had made contact with Dazai’s neck where she’d been aiming. Instead of passing straight through as she was probably supposed to, his ability activated in a flash of brilliant blue light. Half a second later, she was gone. She’d disappeared without a sound, the only evidence to show she’d ever existed was Dazai’s shell shocked expression and the faint breeze. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Chuuya said, utterly resigned. “You’ve gone and killed a ghost.”

The students dressed in blue and bronze rose in an uproar, standing with wands drawn and staring at the place where the ghost had been. They were all yelling at each other in English as the rest of the students gawked. The headmaster let out a long, put-upon sigh before standing up and addressing the crowd. Batman, swathed in...were his robes grey, or was Chuuya just hallucinating? He couldn’t be sure.

Chuuya tuned the headmaster out, his headache having grown exponentially. He really, really missed his apartment. 

[A few weeks later marks the end of term. The Bloody Baron has sequestered himself in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and refuses to come out, despite the cajoling of harried professors and ghosts. Peeves has amped up his campaign of terror against the student body in his absence, but he is too busy commiserating with Myrtle and considering asking the funny muggle with the glowy lights to put him out of his misery. Harry, being Harry, is largely oblivious to everything going on—the Baron’s depression, Hermione’s scheming, Ron’s rapidly growing hero-worship, and Draco’s progressively shiftier demeanor (especially after the last Hogsmeade weekend). He’s too busy thinking about guns and getting better at using them.]

Harry didn’t really want to go back to Grimmauld over the break, but the headmaster had hinted that there was going to be a super-important Order meeting that he’d actually be invited to. And if there was one thing Harry hated more than the house that represented the last of his godfather, it was being kept out of the loop for being “too young”. So he resigned himself to a couple weeks spent inside that drafty building, dodging cursed items and a shrieking portrait. And probably memories. That was not going to be fun. 

He rode the train to London, along with Hermione and Ron. Hermione seemed quieter than usual. Instead of immediately jumping into her homework, she was scribbling away in an unfamiliar notebook. Ron wasn’t wearing the bandages, but Harry suspected that was because he knew his mum would ask awkward questions and he would put them back on when the next term started. 

At the station, they joined up with Chuuya-sensei and Dazai, who’d apparently also taken the train but rode in a different compartment. Harry tried not to bother his teacher with questions, because the scowl on the man’s face was heavier than normal. “Is something wrong?” he asked eventually. 

Chuuya-sensei let out a dismissive sound. “I’m going to have to talk to people,” he muttered. “The headmaster is introducing the bastard and I to his subordinates.”

“Chibi, don’t be so sad!” Dazai put in, grinning wickedly. “I’m sure your horrible personality won’t put them off  _ that  _ much.”

Chuuya-sensei immediately bristled, whipping around to shout, “Bastard! You can’t talk about horrible personalities when you’re literally the worst.”

Harry tried, in vain, not to laugh. Hermione’s eyes got all round and wide when he laughed and she nudged him hard in the side. “What,” he said, narrowing his eyes. 

She huffed. “Don’t encourage them,” she said primly. “You realize that most of the Order will be there, and they’re probably going to be interrogated.  _ Mad-Eye  _ will be there.”

Harry blanched. He did not want to picture the conversation between Mad-Eye Moody and the two men. “He’s going to think they’re foriegn spies,” Harry said, watching as Ron paled. 

“And then he’s going to turn one into a ferret, and then they’re going to duel, and someone’s going to die,” said his best mate, rubbing his face with a hand. 

“Nobody’s going to die,” Chuuya-sensei snapped, having finally caved and asked one of the professors to cast a translation charm on him. 

“If anyone dies, it should be me,” Dazai amended. 

Chuuya-sensei inhaled, then exhaled, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he said slowly, “for  _ numerous  _ reasons, it’s a bad thing for you to die right now. Can’t you save your half-assed suicide attempts for when we get back to Japan?”

“But then hatrack will be bored,” Dazai pointed out, his tone entirely reasonable. “And when hatrack is bored, he blows things up.”

“I will blow  _ you  _ up,” Chuuya-sensei said, scowling even more fiercely. Harry winced. He’d been around the two of them often enough to know that death threats did the opposite of discourage Dazai. Really, they seemed to make him inordinately happy. 

“Are they always like this?” Ron asked in a stage-whisper. Harry nodded, rolling his eyes. “It’s a miracle I actually get taught whenever both of them are around,” he said. 

Hermione blew out a breath and started combing back her hair. With an efficient flick of her wrist and several violent twisting motions, she’d somehow wrangled her hair into a passable bun with skill Harry was both shocked and impressed by. “Who’s taking us to Grimmauld?” she asked. 

“Us,” said Chuuya-sensei, looking altogether displeased about it. “Client said something about preparing the Order for us, considering you three took the train for ‘safety reasons’ and Dazai can’t do magical transportation.” He surveyed them all with a hard glint in his eye. “I’m your babysitter.”

“We don’t need a babysitter,” Harry objected, feeling annoyed on principle. Hadn’t he survived numerous Death Eater and Voldemort attacks? He should be able to go through London without an adult to watch him. Much less Chuuya-sensei, who was the exact opposite of a responsible adult. Dazai was even worse. That man had the IQ of a first-year on the best of days and acted like a needy toddler on the others. 

“Maybe not,” said Chuuya, eyeing the wand tucked into Hermione’s untidy bun, “but I’m getting paid to, so might as well.”

The five of them left the station, walking because Dazai apparently didn’t trust cabs or buses. It was only a thirty minute walk to the borough of Islington, where Grimmauld Place was located, so Harry didn’t mind. All his things had been shrunken so they weren’t a bother to carry. The walk through London was surprisingly refreshing. 

Until, of course, Dazai perked up. “Chuuya,” he said cheerfully, and the man’s gaze slid to him. It was sharper than it usually was, as if the lack of a nickname had put him on edge.

“Yeah, shitty Dazai?”

“It’s not our ministry friend this time,” said Dazai, putting his hands in his pockets and smiling a little. Hermione was watching the conversation and probably cataloguing every single movement the two made, because it was something she would do. Ron was distracted by watching a pigeon. Harry, on the other hand, was listening. The hairs on the back of his neck had stood up at the tone Dazai had used and his danger sense was prickling. 

“Who, then?” said Chuuya, who, in contrast, had taken his hands out of his pockets and had adjusted his hat slightly. 

“Don’t know,” Dazai replied. “But they probably have something to do with him.” He jerked his chin at Harry, who gripped his wand in response. He wasn’t allowed to use magic outside of school, he knew, but Dazai was implying there was a threat nearby. 

Chuuya sighed. “Watch the kids, dickhead,” he grumbled, and flashed into an alley that Harry hadn’t noticed was coming up. 

“Oh, dear,” Dazai murmured.

[Chuuya sees two figures in dark cloaks in the alleyway, muttering in harsh whispers. He catches bits and pieces of their conversation—words like “Potter” and “the Dark Lord”.]

“Hey, shitheads,” Chuuya said, his ability flaring in a haze of reddish light. The unsettling hum that always comes with For the Tainted Sorrow split the air as he grinned wildly. “Who do you work for?”

Instead of answering, the taller one whipped out a wand and cast a spell. Chuuya didn’t understand the words, because they’re definitely not in either English or Japanese, but he got the meaning behind them well enough. He dodged easily, and the bolt of light scored a deep gouge in the wall. Jeez. Wizards really didn’t fuck around. 

The other one, slower on the draw, barely got their wand out before Chuuya was in front of them, hunched over and baring his teeth. He delivered a vicious kick to the chin that sent their head snapping back. Then he dropped down to a crouch as the second wizard shot off another spell to where he just was, this one a sickly yellow in color. Before they could put up a shield, Chuuya darted to the side of the person and roundhouse kicked them hard enough that they slammed into the wall. 

They stuck there in a haze of red light, cursing furiously and trying to move his wand arm. The other assailant was lying on the ground, unmoving. Chuuya clicked his tongue before nudging her with a foot. The red glow of his ability spread to her body, keeping her limbs locked in place, as he checked her for a pulse. She was out cold but still had a faint, thready pulse. He left her there before going over to the man he’d stuck to the wall. 

“I’ll say it again,” he said, cocking his head and examining his prey. He was a balding man in his early fifties, pale and blotchy with rage. “Who the fuck’s your boss?”

“The Dark Lord will kill you,” the man spat, baring his teeth in a pale imitation of a wild animal. Chuuya rolled his eyes. “I’d like to see him try to defy gravity,” he murmured, letting the man slide to the ground. He increased the downward pull on the man’s body until he let out a visceral groan. “Yeah, that’s what’ll happen to your ‘Dark Lord’,” Chuuya said. 

“Mudblood scum,” the man spat, but was ultimately ignored as Chuuya glanced out to the mouth of the alley. “Shitty Dazai,” he called, seeing him peeking in, “what do I do with these guys?”

Dazai raised an eyebrow before nudging Harry, who was staring at the scene with wide eyes. He said something quietly that Chuuya couldn’t make out, and Harry’s face hardened. He said something back to Dazai, and the man chuckled darkly. “He says that’s a couple of Death Eater mooks,” Dazai told him, walking over. “Mini-you agreed.”

“For the last time, bastard, just because he’s a redhead—”

Dazai waved him off, peering at the two Death Eaters. “You could kill them, which would also bring the London police down on our heads. Or we could turn them in.”

“How law-abiding of you, bandages,” Chuuya sneered. He kicked at the sniveling man in disgust. “What does a guy have to do for a decent fight around here?”

Dazai leveled him with a blank stare. “We’re going to be late for the Order meeting,” he said, and Chuuya groaned. Fucking Order meeting with stupid networking and not enough actual fights that made the adrenaline sing in his veins. He could already feel the rush dimming and ebbing away. Fucking boring. He kicked at the sniveling man again just for spite. “I’ll just leave them,” he decided. “Maybe they’ll be less shitty opponents if I see them again.”

Dazai had the gall to laugh at him. Fucking Order meetings. Fucking  _ Dazai. _

[Harry is half in awe of the way Chuuya handled the two unlucky Death Eaters. Hermione is resisting the urge to whip out a piece of paper and write down everything she’d noticed in the fight. Dazai is humming an obnoxious song. Chuuya is grumpy. Ron is the only person whose mood has not changed a beat since they’d gotten on the train that morning, though that probably has more to do with the fact that he’s looking forward to eating his mum’s cooking again. Finally, they arrive in front of Grimmauld Place.]

“Isn’t it Number Twelve?” Chuuya-sensei asked, tilting his head quizzically. Harry grinned at him and passed him a slip of paper. He read it with one eyebrow raised, Dazai peeking over his shoulder, and when he looked up, his eyes widened. “Chibi, that house was  _ not  _ there before.”

Harry snorted. “Fidelius wards,” he said, smiling slightly. “You can’t find it unless the Secret Keeper tells you.”

Chuuya-sensei eyed the piece of paper before activating his ability enough to rip it into pieces. He scattered the pieces with a wave of his hand gestured to the door. “Your house, yeah?”

“More like the Order’s,” Harry grumbled. He walked up to the door and fished the key out from the pocket of his jeans. He opened it with a jiggle of the knob and was faced with the poorly-lit, musty foyer. He sighed. The umbrella stand was lying on its side, which meant Tonks was here, and the curtains over Walburga’s portrait were blissfully closed. 

That…that gave him an idea. 

“Come on, you lot,” he said, looking back at the other four. “No Death Eaters waiting to ambush us.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and skipped up the steps, Ron close behind. They walked into the foyer with the ease of people who had spent a long time there, with Chuuya-sensei and Dazai meandering in after. 

Chuuya-sensei adjusted his hat and Dazai let out a whistle, but neither of them said anything, much to Harry’s relief. With the sort of levity he hadn’t felt in a while, he winked at Ron and jerked his head at the covered portrait. His friend’s mouth curled into a grin, and he nudged Hermione. She glanced at them, followed their gazes to the portrait, and sighed. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she informed them primly, and walked away at a fast trot. Ron followed after her, trying very hard not to laugh.

“Hey, Chuuya-sensei,” Harry said, his voice sly. The man looked over at him. “Yeah?”

“Dazai told me you can’t shoot for shit.

Predictably, Chuuya-sensei bristled, whipping around to Dazai, who looked appropriately surprised. “What the  _ fuck,  _ bastard?! I  _ knew  _ you were badmouthing me to my student! You don’t even fucking  _ fight,  _ where do you get off on talking shit—”

With a screech, the curtains flew open and Walburga’s shouting drowned out even Chuuya-sensei’s diatribe. “SCUM IN THE HOUSE OF MY FOREFATHERS!” she howled, her ugly face creasing in anger. 

Chuuya-sensei took a step back. “What the fuck,” he said blankly, as the woman continued to scream. “MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS! DISGUSTING TRASH! A STAIN ON THE BLACK NAME!”

Dazai’s eyes widened, and a mischievous glint sparked in them. He slid over in front of the portrait with an inhuman grace. Completely oblivious to the nerve-wracking screeching, he knelt, one hand raised as if in worship. “My lady, you are as ephemeral and beautiful as a lotus blossom,” he said, eyes shining. “Would you do the honor of committing double suicide with me?”

Walburga looked down her nose at him, nostrils flaring, before opening her mouth to scream, “FILTH! FILTHY MUDBLOOD, ATTEMPTING TO SPEAK TO ME. HOW DARE YOU?!”

At that,Chuuya-sensei’s ability activated, the red haze flaring out from his skin with an unsettling hum. He looked absolutely feral as he let out a battle cry and shot straight at the portrait. Harry watched in amazement and a little bit of jealousy as his boosted kick flew through the air and went straight through the actual wall. 

_ He just. Wall. What? _

Harry had gone straight past amazed to awed.

Chuuya-sensei withdrew his foot easily, glaring at the woman, whose face had slackened in surprise. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled. 

Drawing herself up in furious rage, she opened her mouth and appeared to take a deep breath. Dazai scowled, ripped off his glove with his teeth, and laid his palm flat on the torn canvas. “You’re almost as annoying as the hatrack,” he muttered. In a blast of wind and blue light, Walburga stilled in her frame, still mid-inhale. 

Chuuya-sensei glanced over at Harry. “Sorry for breaking your wall,” he said, not looking very sorry at all.

Harry laughed, a clear, delighted sound. “She’s been a terror since I first got this house,” he admitted. “I was hoping you two would end up wrecking it.”

Chuuya-sensei grinned, teeth flashing in the dim, dusty light. “In that case…” He flexed his ability once, the haze of red enveloping the portrait. He dug his hands into the wall, scoring furrows in the ugly wallpaper. With a screech, he ripped the entire painting off, taking about an inch of the drywall with it. He turned that deadly grin onto Harry, who mirrored it with a smile of his own.

Hermione came back through the door, leaning on the frame with an amused look in her eye. “They’re all wondering what you’re doing back here,” she said. “Ron’s stalling them, but the meeting’s going to start. If you’re done?”

Harry laughed again, and it was such an odd feeling, being genuinely happy. Hermione smiled at him. “Professor Dumbledore is in there, too,” she said, and Harry nodded. He followed her in, the two ability users presumably following behind. 

The room was filled with Order members, most of whom he recognized. The first person to greet him was Lupin, looking as shabby and tired as he always did. “Harry,” he said, sounding relieved. “Hi, Professor,” Harry said.

He was drawn into a conversation about school, his friends, and his grades, as if they were both avoiding the elephant in the room that was Sirius’s absence. Harry was grateful for it. He didn’t want to think about who the house really belonged to or what had happened last summer. So instead, he busied himself talking about mundane things, things that if he were a normal student on whom the fate of the world didn’t rest, he would probably care more about. As it was, they only got in a few minutes before the headmaster walked to the front of the room to call for silence. 

They turned to face the man, who was dressed in his usual eye-searing color combinations. Today, it was a bright canary yellow on a crimson background, with stars whirling about his cuffs. He smiled with his hand behind his back, the blackened skin hidden from view.

“Greetings and salutations, all,” the headmaster said cheerfully. “I’ve got a few announcements and introductions to make before we discuss our plans going forward. If all goes as planned, which it probably won’t, the final confrontation with Voldemort and his followers will occur in a month.”

Whispers flew around the suddenly silent room. That was moving up their plans by a lot, considering the projected final confrontation had previously been in a year. But Dumbledore silenced them all with a clearing of his throat. “With that in mind, I’d like to introduce two temporary additions to the Order.” He gestured to Dazai and Chuuya-sensei, leaning against the wall. Dazai wiggled his fingers in a little wave, while Chuuya-sensei looked annoyed that the spotlight was on him. 

“Chuuya Nakahara and Osamu Dazai are two ability users from Japan,” the man said, smiling. “I’ve hired them to be our main assault squad.”

Now the whispers came out in full force. “They’re foreigners,” Mundungus Fletcher called from the back. “How can we trust them? And what the hell is an ability user?”

Dumbledore only twinkled at them, as cryptic and maddening as he always was, as Moody spoke up. “Don’t be an idiot, Fletcher. Ability users. They’ve got one spell they can use and that’s it. Practically muggles.” He sneered, crossing his arms. Dumbledore smiled benevolently. “Now, Alastor, I don’t think it would be prudent to dismiss them right off the bat.”

Harry eyed Chuuya-sensei, who looked bored. But he’d been around the man often enough in the past few weeks that he could see the tightness around his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. Dazai, on the other hand, looked perfectly relaxed. 

“Can they even speak English?” Fletcher muttered. 

“Yeah, I can, thanks,” Chuuya-sensei snapped, baring his teeth at the man. Hestia Jones sniffed, glaring at the thief. “Shut your trap, Fletcher, before you piss them off,” she said, her tone biting. The man subsided, grumbling. 

Soon after, the meeting was adjourned. Mrs. Weasley had made a lot of food and put it out onto tables, buffet-style, so people could grab food and talk in hushed conversations as they pleased. Harry was quickly drawn into a circle with Ron, Hermione, and the twins, and was promptly too distracted to notice Chuuya-sensei and Dazai being interrogated by various Order members.

[Chuuya and Dazai are accosted by Remus as soon as the meeting ends.]

A man in clearly second-hand clothes was the first to come up to him and the mackerel, his eyes shifty but clearly determined. He put out a hand to shake, which Chuuya did, if hesitantly. “Remus Lupin,” he said, locking eyes with Chuuya. The bastard seemed to have a mini coughing fit beside him, but was ignored.

“Chuuya Nakahara,” he replied. The man’s handshake was firm as he said, tilting his head, “You know Harry?”

“I’ve been showing him a few things,” Chuuya admitted cautiously, and Lupin nodded. “He mentioned you. Said you’ve been teaching him how to use muggle weapons.”

Chuuya was not at all sure what the word “muggle” meant, but nodded anyway. “He was the one who asked,” he said, with a shrug. “I didn’t have anything better to do. The headmaster’s sent us out to run some errands for him, but other than that, I’m just at the castle making sure this guy doesn’t do something stupid.” He jerked a finger at Dazai, who was considering Lupin with a curious expression. 

“Mr. Lupin,” he said slowly. “You wouldn’t happen to like wolves, would you?”

The man visibly stiffened, immediately put on the defensive. “I don’t like them much,” he said, jaw clenching. 

Dazai sighed. “Shame. Cats, then? Do you like those?”

Lupin tilted his head. “I suppose,” he said, and Dazai smirked. “Back home, I have a subordinate who turns into a cat sometimes. A tiger. He’s quite formidable on the battlefield.”

Lupin’s face drained of color. Chuuya, on the other hand, was having Vietnam-war style flashbacks to Akutagawa pacing the training hall, muttering “jinko” under his breath like a curse. The kid already spent the vast majority of his free time there, but ever since he’d run off to the Moby Dick, he somehow carved even more time out of his schedule. “What, the weretiger?” Chuuya put in. “Akutagawa has  _ not  _ stopped talking about him.”

Dazai bit back a laugh. “Atsushi can be very charming,” he agreed. 

“He keeps threatening murder in various, increasingly creative ways,” Chuuya clarified. “The only one who even talks to him anymore is Ichiyo, because she’s just as obsessed.”

“Not even Gin?” Dazai asked.

“She hasn’t stopped taking back to back missions, just to get away from him,” Chuuya said dryly. 

Then Lupin cut in, an odd look in his eyes. “Did you say  _ weretiger? _ ”

Dazai’s gaze slid to him, calculating. “Like I said, a subordinate of mine. He’s one of our best frontline assault members.”

“He can  _ control  _ it?” Lupin asked, utterly flabbergasted, and Dazai shrugged. “Not at the start, but now, yes.” 

Chuuya watched the exchange with a certain amount of confusion and a large amount of exasperation. The bastard had strung the man along with barely a few sentences, and though Chuuya had helped him, he didn’t feel any better about it. Lupin was playing into whatever game Dazai was playing without a single reservation, apparently. 

Chuuya decided to end the game, as amusing as it was, because he could see another person out of the corner of his eye who was gearing themselves up to speak to them. The sooner they got through the headmaster’s informal interrogations, the sooner they could get out of this stifling room. “Just give him the weretiger’s number already, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya said, sighing. 

“He’s my subordinate!” the dickhead squawked, indignant. “I can’t just give his number to strange men from foreign countries!”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “You know you want to,” he said. “I don’t know why, but you clearly do. Just do it already, because that guy looks like he’s frothing at the mouth for the  _ pleasure  _ of our company.”

Dazai glanced at the man in the corner, the one with the peg leg and too many scars for him to count. “Fine,” he said with a matching sigh, flicking his phone open and rattling off a number. “You can remember that, yes?” he said, eyeing Lupin, who nodded. He looked shell shocked. Chuuya didn’t particularly care as he thanked them and moved on, as if in a daze. No sooner had he moved away had the man with the creepy blue eye hobbled over, right into Dazai’s personal space. 

“I know your type,” the man hissed. “One of those untrustworthy, slippery bastards. You think you’re smarter than the rest of us, dontcha? You’ve got another thing coming, lad. I’ve seen right through you.”

Chuuya edged away slightly, watching the exchange. 

Dazai’s stare had gone flat and cold, and Chuuya felt a brief flash of pity for the old man.

The bastard smiled, with just a hint of teeth. “Moody, is it?” he said, before barrelling on. “I know for a fact you can’t see through me, magical eye or no.”

Moody snarled. “How do we know we can trust you?” he growled, jabbing a finger into Dazai’s chest. 

“You don’t,” Dazai said. His grin widened. “That’s the best part, right, Mr. Moody?” He leaned closer, invading the man’s personal space in return. “What a useful trinket,” he crooned, fixated on the spinning glass eye. “What would happen if I touched it?”

Moody jerked back, teeth grinding audibly. “I bet you’re a Death Eater spy,” he said, hand flexing on his wand. Chuuya was ready to activate his ability and punt the annoying man into the wall, but Dazai only tilted his head quizzically. “What’s a Death Eater?” he asked blankly. 

Chuuya knew damn well that the asshole was playing with him, but he stayed silent and let his ability fizzle back into nothing. 

Moody sputtered. “You don’t know what Death Eaters are?” he said, surprised. 

“Can they kill me?” Dazai asked, feigning an interested expression. 

“They’re Voldemort’s followers, of course they could,” Moody sneered, and Dazai’s face split into a delighted grin. “And are any of them beautiful women?”

Moody only stared at him, utterly taken aback. “I...Bellatrix Lestrange?” he said hesitantly. “She’s one crazy bitch.”

“We broke into her vault,” Chuuya muttered, recognizing the name and not having the presence of mind to bite his tongue. 

Moody rounded on him. “You!” he growled. “You were the ones who sent the goblins into a panic and nearly triggered the next goblin war!”

Chuuya shrugged nonchalantly. Really, he didn’t give a damn. The snarling dog in front of him wasn’t a threat. All bark and no bite, he figured. But another man was coming over, with a shock of vibrant red hair like the kid Dazai called mini-him. His expression was intent. “I’m sorry, but did I just overhear that you broke into  _ Gringotts? _ ” he said. He had an earring in one ear and his hair was tied into a ponytail just like Chuuya’s, and he had a roguish sort of face.

Chuuya hated him already. 

“Dumbledore told us to,” Dazai piped up, crossing his arms with a wicked smirk. 

The new man gritted his teeth. “I will need to have words with the headmaster,” he muttered, and tapped Moody on the shoulder. “Care to join me?”

“Gladly,” the man huffed, grumbling about crazy bastards and spies. 

“I hate this place,” Chuuya said to Dazai. There were bags under his eyes and he looked more tired than usual, but he shrugged all the same. “We’ll be back in Japan soon, chibi. Besides, are you saying you can’t handle a bunch of nosy wizards?”

“Fuck off,” he snapped, and Dazai chuckled. Chuuya looked away, frowning, but before he could say anything more, another redhead was in front of him. She was older and had a determined, if wary, look on her face. He was bracing himself for another interrogation, resigned to his fate, before realizing that in her hands she held a plate full of food. She shoved it toward him. “Eat,” she said. “You look as if you haven’t had food in  _ months _ .”

“Don’t look at me, look at Dazai,” he said on reflex, but the slippery bastard had  _ abandoned  _ him. He was somehow already on the other side of the room, speaking to Harry. What the  _ fuck,  _ weren’t they supposed to have a united front of some shit? 

She shoved the plate closer. “Eat,” she insisted, and, bemused, Chuuya took the plate from her. She nodded stiffly before bustling away. 

Chuuya held the plate in his hand, staring at the food with a strange expression on his face. He’d just...been mothered. Aggressively, and without room for argument. What? What the hell had his life become?

Mini-him had sidled up to his side. “That’s my mum,” he said fondly, if exasperatedly. “She’s always like that.”

“Sure,” Chuuya said, absentmindedly taking a bite of the food. Holy shit. It was actually really good. 

Trying to look nonchalant, he shoveled some into his mouth. The last time he’d eaten was in the Great Hall for breakfast and it was nearly seven at night, so he was starving. With a satisfied smirk, he watched as she filled up another plate and shoved it at Dazai. A little bit of back and forth later, and the woman was striding away with a victorious expression and Dazai was left clutching the plate, as confused as Chuuya had been moments ago. That’s what he got for abandoning him, Chuuya thought viciously. 

[Fred and George corner their mother, eyes narrowed.]

“Mum!” said Fred cheerfully, grinning widely. “Me and Fred have a question for you.”

George nodded. “A real important one,” he said, his voice solemn. Their mother looked at them with a suspicious expression. “What is it?” she asked. 

“You wouldn’t have happened to, er.” Fred looked at George, who wiggled his eyebrows suggestively for effect. “Have a kid with someone from Japan, yeah?”

Molly draws herself up, bristling. “Of course not!” she said hotly, planting her hands on her hips. “What even—well, I  _ never. _ ”

George shrugged. “George and I figured,” he said, “that the guy over there  _ has  _ to be a Weasley or a Prewett.” He jerked his chin at Nakahara, who was downing the food on the plate like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “Red hair, blue eyes. He’s even short, like Charlie.”

Molly looked absolutely aghast. “No talk of that,” she said severely. “I won’t stand for accusations like that.”

Fred waved his hands. “We aren’t accusing you of anything!” he said, because getting his mother all riled up was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“Maybe he’s a cousin?” George mused. “What do you think, George?”

“Maybe,” said Fred, rubbing exaggeratedly at his chin. Molly looked somewhat appeased, but her cheeks were still bright red. “I’m going to check on dessert,” she said, huffing, and strode off. 

“Definitely a cousin,” Fred muttered then. 

[Mundungus likes to think he’s a simple man. Easy to please, easy to amuse, easy to motivate. All he really cares about is making sure he has food on the table and staying alive...and, well. Keeping a step ahead of the law. It’s the second that he’s having trouble with.]

It wasn’t that he was about to die, no, of course not. It was that he’d let his mouth run a little faster than his brain and Nakahara was currently looming over him with a sadistic grin on his face and a wicked gleam in his eyes. The other one wasn’t any better. He hovered behind Nakahara with a quiet smirk and a fake-thoughtful expression that made Dung’s skin crawl.

“You call that  _ crime? _ ” Nakahara said, his grin widening. Dung was backing away, trying not to make it obvious, while still being painfully aware of Hestia snickering behind him. “Uh, it’s just some extracurricular activity, you know,” he babbled, feeling the wall at his back and promptly sinking into despair.

Nakahara glanced at Dazai. “How many cases of extortion are you guilty of, again?” he asked. 

“312,” Dazai said, inordinately cheerful. “I’m sure a Port Mafia exec would be guilty of more, though.”

Nakahara rolled his eyes. “That’s the shit Ace likes to do,” he said dismissively. “I’m a bit more…” he glanced at Dung, “ _ hands on,  _ if you get what I mean.” 

Dung wasn’t proud of the  _ eep  _ he made when Nakahara turned that acidic blue gaze on him, and he definitely wasn’t proud of the way he skittered away after that, but sometimes a tactical retreat was necessary. How did a man make adjusting his hat so overtly threatening? He definitely wasn’t about to flex his, er, extracurricular activity to Hestia after this, anyway. At least not in front of those two. 

[Chuuya has found Dazai again in the crowd. Dazai is leaning against a wall with a bored look in his eyes.]

“Shitty Dazai,” Chuuya muttered. The man looked up, arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow expectantly. 

“Order’s gonna leave soon. Then it’ll be me, you, the redheads, and the trio.”

Dazai made a humming noise, straightening. “It’s time, then.”

Even though it wasn’t a question, Chuuya nodded. The two of them waited there, silently watching the Order members, as they all slowly filtered out of the house in twos and threes. It was past eleven when the house was emptied of its temporary guests. To Chuuya’s surprise, Harry plopped down onto the floor next to them. “Order meetings are tiring,” he said, glancing at them. “How was the interrogation, sensei?”

Chuuya quirked a wry grin. “I think I made Fletcher piss himself,” he said. 

Dazai sniffed. “That was a joint effort, thank you  _ very  _ much,” he added, turning his nose up at Chuuya. 

“You’re a government worker,” Chuuya sneered. “Mafia background or otherwise, you’re a fucking kitten compared to me.”

“Meow.”

Harry snorted. The kid looked...weary. As if dealing with all the people who’d wanted to talk to him had tired him out as much as the interrogations had exhausted Chuuya. “You’ve been eyeing me all night,” he said, displaying more observational skills than Chuuya had thought he was capable of. “What is it?”

“It can wait until morning,” Chuuya said, knowing that, while it  _ could,  _ it was better to get over it quickly. 

Harry’s green eyes were sharp. “What is it?” he repeated, and Chuuya caved because he was tired and really, truly, did  _ not  _ want to deal with any of this shit. “What do you know about a guy named Regulus Black?”

Nothing, it turned out, past the fact that Regulus Black was his godfather’s younger brother. The question had made Harry’s entire body tense, though with anger or grief, Chuuya couldn’t tell. The search for the real locket might have ended then and there if a small, twisted creature hadn’t stumbled out of the darkness.

“Why do you speak his  _ name,”  _ the creature rasped, bulbous eyes settling on Chuuya with unerring focus. Before he could open his mouth to retort, or maybe to start yelling because  _ holy fuck what was that thing,  _ Dazai stepped in with the sort of quiet foolhardiness he always had. “We’re looking for something of his,” he said, completely unfazed. “A locket.”

The creature let out a shriek. “Muggles! Touching Master Regulus’s locket? What would he think!” It quickly devolved into half-crazed mumblings and growls, trying to retreat back into the shadows. Chuuya quickly stepped behind it so that it bumped into his legs as it tried to escape. “Where is it?” he asked, activating his ability with a hum. 

It skittered away from him and into Dazai, who was staring at it intently. “We’re going to destroy it,” he said, “whether you want us to or not.”

Surprising Chuuya yet again, the thing began to cry. Big, fat tears splashed onto the carpet as it sobbed. The whole story, sordid and tragic, came out in between gasps. Regulus Black, a talented Death Eater, had loaned him to Voldemort. The man had tested the defenses around the lake and left him to die, but he’d escaped back to his master. He’d defected then, swapped out the lockets and ultimately died there. 

“You can destroy it?” the small creature asked, its gaze pleading. Dazai nodded silently. 

It reached into its ratty bedsheet, tied around itself with haphazard knots, and tugged out a locket the exact match of the one they’d found in the cave. For once utterly serious, the bastard tugged off his glove and took it into his hand. The explosion of blue light and wind that followed lit up the dim room and Chuuya saw Harry’s eyes widen. This would be only the second time he’d seen the dickhead’s ability, he supposed, but it wasn’t that impressive. 

Dazai handed the locket back, not saying a word, and the creature melted back into the shadows with a quiet thank you. 

“I miss Japan,” Chuuya muttered. God, he was tired. “Are we fixing Harry tonight, too? I’m fucking exhausted.” He needed a drink.

“What do you mean,  _ fix me? _ ” Harry asked, paling. 

“Just let shitty Dazai tap you on the forehead,” Chuuya replied, rolling his eyes. “You’ll be fine, and he’ll get rid of whatever the fuck is wrong with your scar.”

Harry, predictably but no less infuriatingly, clapped a hand to his forehead. “Nothing’s wrong,” he shot back. “Sometimes I see into his head, and all, but it’s dead useful because I can see what Voldemort’s planning.”

“Nah, kid,” said Chuuya. He did not have the patience for this right then. “Do you want the piece of shit dead?”

Harry nodded. 

“Then let Dazai poke you in the forehead. You’ll be fine.”

Grudgingly, Harry lowered his hand. With a vapid smile and a “Boop!” Dazai tapped his scar with the tip of his finger. Another explosion of blue light and wind later, rattling all the knick-knacks on their shelves, and Harry was blinking at them. He looked utterly confused. “Am I good now?” he asked vacantly. 

“Yep,” Chuuya said. 

“Great,” he said, his voice faint. “Bedrooms are upstairs. There are a bunch, pick whichever isn’t occupied.” He made no move to get up from where he was leaning against the wall, his green eyes unfocused and his face slack. 

“Really hope you didn’t break him,” Chuuya muttered, and Dazai shrugged. “Not our problem either way,” he said, and Chuuya slugged him in the shoulder. Tried to, at least, because even exhausted the bastard could dance out of the way with all the grace of a drunken pigeon. “Nice try, chibi!” he sang, bouncing up the stairs. 

Turned out there was only one bedroom unoccupied upstairs. 

At least, Chuuya thought, with the kind of resignation that came with a long day, there were two beds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that though I wrote the twins into Ch. 5, they'd already dropped out the previous year. This is officially an AU where they came back after Umbridge was sacked, lol.
> 
> This chapter did not want to be written. But hey! The next chapter is the final showdown and then the epilogue :)


	11. Conflict

#  **Chapter Eleven: Conflict**

“O my young brother, I cry for you

Don't you understand you must not die!

You who were born the last of all

Command a special store of parents' love

Would parents place a blade in children's hands

Teaching them to murder other men

Teaching them to kill and then to die?

Have you so learned and grown to twenty-four?

“Thou Shalt Not Die” by Akiko Yosano

[In his office at Malfoy manor, Voldemort is not having a good time.]

Voldemort stared blankly at the opposing wall from where he lounged at a desk. Someone with a death wish might have pointed out that he merely sat at the desk, because the chair provided was much too small to accommodate his freakishly long legs if he did anything more than sit properly. However, Voldemort was very skilled at many things—one of these being the art of lying to oneself. And so, he  _ lounged,  _ luxuriously and aesthetically, because he was Lord  _ bloody  _ Voldemort. 

However, at the present moment, he was not in the mood for lounging. Rather, he was in the mood to rip someone into itty bitty pieces and feast upon their liver. He may have done that once, but the memories of his time pre-getting-disintegrated had a distinctly fuzzy quality to them. So he couldn’t be sure, though it sounded like something he would do. 

Regardless, he really wanted to rip someone into pieces. In front of the rest of his Death Eaters, perhaps, useless cannon fodder they all were. Perhaps it would be Lucius? But the man was still rotting in Azkaban. Voldemort could really care less, but he did need toys for the werewolves and so would get him out at some point in the future. 

It was looking to be farther and farther into the future, he groused. The newspaper in front of him was slightly charred and tattered at the edges, because even on good days Voldemort didn’t have great control over his temper. The article on the front was about Scrimgeour being appointed interim minister, rather than his favored puppet, Pius Thicknesse. The people in charge of imperius in the ministry were, as were all his subordinates, hopelessly incompetent. He had torturing them to death in the near future, he supposed, to look forward to. 

It was the other articles that concerned him more, particularly the ones about the near-miss with the goblins. They’d been precariously close to starting another goblin rebellion due to some people with the sheer audacity to break into Gringotts in full daylight, and yet manage, somehow, to not get caught. Because none of the goblins had actually paid any attention to what they looked like. 

Voldemort supposed that his subordinates were not the only ones to be in for a ludicrous amount of pain.

And again, it wasn’t the almost-rebellion that concerned him. No, it was the fact that it was the goddamn Lestrange vault that had been broken into, all the magic somehow  _ stolen  _ from every single object inside. It could have been coincidence that it was the same vault his horcrux had once resided in, considering it was not the only target, but it had only been the Lestrange vault. His others should be safe. There was no way that anyone could know about them, though the loss of the diary years ago was unfortunate. 

Perhaps he’d take a trip to the lake soon, to check on the inferi as well as his horcrux. He was contemplating using his vast hordes of inferi during the final, planned assault of the war he was going to soon wage. The shock value would be great for striking fear into the soft hearts of the muggle-loving  _ light  _ supporters, and they made even better cannon fodder than Lucius Malfoy did. 

Although he’d have to leave some behind, just in case someone  _ did  _ make for his horcruxes. Damn. Dilemma after dilemma. 

A scream, bloodcurdling and full of agony, came from the other side of the manor. That would be Bella. She was off causing havoc in a temper tantrum of epic proportions, Voldemort knew. He would probably have to get the Malfoy brat to do some clean up. Would be good for him, he thought, to get experience handling dead bodies. Perhaps he could call it hazing? And the scream sounded rather like that of Thoros Nott, which Voldemort regretted somewhat. The man was a halfway competent subordinate. 

But his son was a flighty bastard who had somehow wiggled out of taking the Mark, which frustrated him beyond belief. He needed more subordinates, damn it! They were all just so squishy and prone to death. He’d popped Travers like a bug the other day after a single explosive curse! It had been so annoying that he’d popped two more Death Eaters out of spite, and so there were three gaping holes in his ranks that he really did need to fill. 

And after Bella was done with Thoros Nott, he doubted the man would be able to pick up a wand again. Bella did love driving people into insanity. 

At least someone else was causing the ministry a headache. Someone had continually broken in over the course of several weeks, playing petty pranks. Not one of the offices or departments had been spared, not even the Department of Mysteries. Officially, that last bit wasn’t in the papers. But Voldemort had a man down there who had come to him in a panic, stating that the archway in the Death Chamber had been graffitied over in neon yellow ink. 

And it was all written in  _ Japanese. _

That, of course, had actually pinged Voldemort’s danger radar. Severus, slightly competent mook that he was, had mentioned that Albus I-shit-rainbows-out-of-my-arsehole Dumbledore hired a couple of ability users from Japan. In his educated opinion, ability-users were less than useful. After all, they lacked all the range and power that wizards had, and were basically glorified muggles. 

So he hadn’t worried, until they’d proven themselves capable to break into the ministry. 

Perhaps he should do something about them?

Another scream came from the other side of the manor, and Voldemort allowed himself a single, gusty sigh. That one had sounded like Augustus Rookwood, another semi-capable subordinate. Damn it, Bella.

[In the end, they take the battle to Voldemort. Holed up at Malfoy manor with the rest of his forces, there was no feasible way to orchestrate a final battle to draw him out unless Albus is willing to put Harry on the front lines as bait. Whatever he may have done, whatever he may have considered before making that trip to Japan, Albus is  _ not _ willing. Harry is perched in a tree, held securely in place with sticking spells, and Severus is at the base of the tree. It is sunset, and the world is bathed in oranges and yellows.]

Severus kept casting revealing charms, paranoid beyond belief that somebody would sneak up on them and murder their only hope of actually killing the man. He cast a Tempus charm silently, and grit his teeth when he saw that it was five minutes before the conflict would begin. Albus planned to send out an advanced guard first, with the Order’s heaviest hitters. He was supposed to be with the advance guard, but instead, he was stuck here, with Harry Potter, to keep him from dying prematurely. 

The five minutes seemed to crawl by as they both waited, in tense, wary silence. He counted down in his head the last few seconds to when Lupin, Shacklebolt, Moody, and Bill Weasley would break the wards using the bypass he’d managed to work in weeks ago in preparation. He’d assumed originally when Albus had briefed them all, three days prior, that Nakahara and Dazai would be sent in first with them. But Albus had shaken his head, a wicked gleam in his eye. “They’ll be sent in right after,” he promised, “after the Death Eaters have been taken by surprise.”

The crackling sound of broken wards split the air, and a Caterwauling charm began to sound. Severus tensed. “It’s starting,” he said, and the boy in the tree above him made an assenting noise. He dared a glance up. Potter’s face was grim and determined, and his knuckles were white on the sniper rifle he held. “It ends today,” Severus murmured. 

“For better or worse,” said Potter, perhaps the first time they’d ever agreed on anything. They both lapsed into quiet from their positions. Potter had pulled out a bloody invisibility cloak and so Severus couldn’t see him anymore, but he himself had cast a disillusionment charm and several perimeter alarm spells. They wouldn’t be snuck up upon, not today. 

Death Eaters, cloaked in black and with signature masks hiding their identities, poured out of the manor’s front gates. They quickly surrounded the advance guard, shooting off spells at the four. He quickly lost sight of them among the black robes, but he could see the glimmer of shields and hear the sizzle of spellfire through the air. 

They only needed to hold out thirty seconds to draw out most of the Death Eaters. After that, the second group, made up of Albus, Minerva, Arthur Weasley, and Hestia Jones would assault the manor from the rear, and both Nakahara and Dazai would join the advance guard. Just thirty seconds of spellfire, Severus repeated silently. Thirty seconds. They could survive it. 

The mark on his arm was a raging inferno of agony, a pull towards his master that, for the first time in his life, Severus steadfastly ignored. Not today, Voldemort. Not  _ fucking  _ today. 

There’s an audible crash as Nakahara hits the battlefield. He lands directly on top of one of the Death Eaters, somehow jumping all the way from the wardline to the front gates. Whoever that was, they were probably very, very dead. The ensuing crater blows all the Death Eaters back and knocks them off their feet, sending them scrambling to get up. All the spellfire is directed at Nakahara then, leaving the four members of the advance guard to make for the front doors. 

Albus hadn’t wanted the fight to be taken inside, knowing that fighting on the battlefield of his enemies was probably a bad idea. But they needed to clear the manor, and so he had decided on the two-pronged approach currently occurring. Albus attacked from the rear, and the advance guard from the front doors. 

He just hoped it wouldn’t backfire utterly. 

[Chuuya, on the wardline, has For the Tainted Sorrow already activated. He is smiling.]

“You ready, shitty Dazai?” he asked, cracking his knuckles audibly, and Dazai smirks at him. “I’m not a barbarian like you, slug,” he said. 

Chuuya scoffed and ignored him, peering out into the half-light of the twilight at the advance guard. They’d been surrounded by Death Eaters but seemed, as far as Chuuya could tell, to be holding their own fairly well. He figured it’d been thirty seconds by now, and took a couple steps back. The ground was cratering under his feet with each step. He crouched, and sprang, boosting himself by lowering his own density and controlling the fall to land right on top of the people in black cloaks, letting out a triumphant scream. 

Whichever unlucky sod he landed on was squashed into a fine paste. He stood from his crouch, flexing his fingers, and grinned at the remaining men. “Who’s next?” he asked, baring his teeth. 

The one in the lead shot off several spells at him, yelling in that bastardized Latin language. He jumped up, flipping over the streams of colored light. Then he twisted, his foot coming into direct contact with their head. Like the squishy wizards they were, he crumpled to the ground. 

With all the craters he’d marked in the ground, there were plenty of pebbles glowing the light of his ability. They spun around him like a mini solar system, catching the spells he couldn’t dodge and exploding into splinters of rock and dirt with each hit. The crowd of Death Eaters hadn’t hit him once, and the bastard hadn’t even managed to run up yet. 

“You’re fucking boring,” Chuuya yelled, spinning like a top to nail another Death Eater in the gut. They were sent flying backward, crashing against a pillar and laying there, unmoving. The next got a kick to the chin, lifting them up and above their comrades before they collapsed in the dirt. 

The others were smart enough to have put up shields by then, backing away from him. Chuuya only grinned wider. Their tiny little shields couldn’t stop  _ gravity.  _ They looked absurdly weak in comparison to the shield the tiny professor had put up against him, too, thin and patchy in places. He reached inside his pocket and flung out a hand. Bullets arrayed in front of him, all glowing with his ability, and he sent them off. They rocketed towards the wizards, their inertia and density changed so that they went far more quickly than any normal bullet. 

They pierced through the shields easily, hitting each of his targets. They all slumped to the ground, vital organs pierced in numerous places. 

The bullets went straight through the bodies and curved back to float in front of Chuuya, ready and waiting to be used on his other enemies. The smarter of the Death Eaters had backed up and thrown up a stronger, less wimpy shield, and was chugging something from a vial. A potion, maybe? Chuuya didn’t particularly care. He barrelled toward them and they tried to back up, but Chuuya was far faster than them. He sent the bullets out with a wave of his hand and they pierced through them before looping around and coming back. He glanced around, hackles raised, waiting to see more enemies. 

But there were none. All he saw instead was Dazai, walking up with a bored expression. It was oddly cold, he realized, before brushing the thought aside. 

“Chibi!” he yelled. “You didn’t save any for me!”

“There’s more inside, you tacky bastard!” Chuuya yelled back, but then he saw it. A shadow, cloaked and shrouded in mist, advanced from right. Behind it was a swarm of other shadows and the temperature dropped steadily. 

“Oh, what the  _ fuck, _ ” Chuuya muttered. His limbs felt cold and numb, and thoughts swam in his mind, memories he hadn’t thought of in a very long time. Even the buzzing hum of For the Tainted Sorrow or the warmth of the adrenaline in his veins was lost to the encompassing cold as the shadows drew closer. 

Fear. 

Fear crept up inside him, the sort of crawling, creeping terror he had not felt in years. Not since he was fifteen with a poisoned knife in his gut, staring at a boy he’d once trusted to have his back and faced with trained soldiers with guns. Not since he was eight, having stumbled into Yokohama with no memories before that and knowing intrinsically that if he didn’t get somewhere warm, he would die. And he didn’t want to die. 

Despair, choking despair, was trying to pull him down into its depths but he resisted. He took a step back, then another. His fists clenched and he was preparing to try and fight the damn thing when Dazai, shitty, dickhead Dazai, was in front of him in a whirl of tan coat and stupid fluffy hair.

“I know what you are,” Chuuya heard him say, quiet as the grave. His posture was straight, shoulders thrown back, as the thing came closer. It was so close that Chuuya could hear its breath rattle as it inhaled.

Dazai reaches out an ungloved hand and taps the skeletal, hooded creature, and the world explodes into blue light and wind. Chuuya had always shied away from No Longer Human. He hated when the warmth of the world was chased out by the hungry, seeking void of Dazai’s ability, and he hated being close to Dazai himself. But for once, he was desperately, disgustingly grateful, as the blue bands of kanji wrapped around the creature. In a burst of refracting light and an unearthly, drawn out howl, the creature vanished. 

The oppressive fear in Chuuya abated with the creature’s absence, and he inhaled because he felt like he could breathe again, inhaled because he had been drowning in thoughts of cold nights and a stab wound. The other creatures, coming up behind and bringing with them chilling cold and menace, halted. They all faced Dazai, who stood, arm outstretched, as if he’d done the easiest thing in the world. 

Then they turned around and fled. 

Dazai waited a moment, staring after them, before looking over his shoulder at Chuuya. “Are you just going to stand there, hatrack?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I can still hear fighting inside.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth and turned around, frustrated with his moment of weakness. God, he fucking hated the wizards and their freaky creatures. Why the hell had he been so scared? Dazai has been  _ fine,  _ and that pissed him off. 

“Dementors,” Dazai said suddenly. “They make you relieve your worst nightmares.”

“What, with magic?” Chuuya snarled, and Dazai shrugged. “I didn’t feel cold,” he said, watching as Chuuya rubbed fruitlessly at his arms. It was a benign enough statement, Chuuya supposed. But the hard knot of anger and terror in his gut loosened slightly. 

He blew out a breath. “Onward,” he muttered, sliding his gaze to Dazai. “Do we go around back to help the client, or do we blow off the roof?”

Dazai squinted at the manor, deliberating. “Roof,” he said decisively. “Blow up the roof, chibi.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he growled, settling into a crouch. He inhaled, then exhaled, letting his ability flare around him in a blaze of red light. He sprang off the ground and onto the roof. His feet dug craters into the shingles, bits and pieces of debris rising around him with every step he took. Slowly, the red glow spread from his shoes to encompass the entire top of the manor until it was covered in a haze. 

Inhale, exhale. 

Push the reach of For the Tainted Sorrow. Feel every single particle of the roof, shining beacons in his awareness.

Inhale, exhale. 

He ground his teeth together and bent down so his gloves were touching the roof. A roar ripped from his lungs, and he  _ pulled. _

With a screeching, tearing sound that echoed into the quickly falling night, the roof of the manor was torn from its foundations and sent crashing into the ground. Chuuya, breathing hard but grinning anyway, peered down into the top floor of the manor. Nobody had been in the attic, it seemed, but the sounds of feet on the stairs told him that there would be. He backflipped off his perch on the lip of the building to land next to Dazai. 

The man was coughing from the dust that had risen with the destruction of the roof. “Barbarian,” he muttered, and Chuuya sneered. “Fuck off,” he said, “we’ve got company.”

Multiple Death Eaters, all cloaked in the same dark black, jumped down from the wall. Their descent was slow, controlled, and the ground they landed on was somehow spongy. Chuuya didn’t much care what method they’d used to keep themselves from falling to their deaths, because they wouldn’t be alive for much longer anyway. 

“Hey, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya muttered, casually blocking the spells sent their way with pebbles. “You want these?”

Dazai rolled his eyes. “You can take them,” he said dismissively.

“You were  _ just  _ complaining that I killed all the previous ones!” Chuuya shot back, and Dazai shrugged. “I changed my mind,” he said. 

“Fucking—” Chuuya turned away, snarling, and hurled several fragments of a pebble at the closest Death Eater. When they impacted a hastily-erected shield, Chuuya had already flashed behind them. He kicked him in the back, his inertia carrying him towards Dazai. Dazai let out a long, put-upon sigh, cocking a gun he’d taken out of fuck-all-nowhere and shooting the man in the head. 

“You’re so mean, chibbiko,” the asshole whined, twirling the gun lazily. 

“Shut the fuck up!” He shoved another Death Eater into Dazai’s range and delivered a swift uppercut to another’s jaw, sending them stumbling back. Chuuya got him with a bullet to the chest while he was too distracted from the pain to put up another shield. 

“This is too fucking easy,” he muttered, driving his fist into someone’s gut so hard they coughed up blood. He crushed the skull of another with a tap of his finger and soon enough, most of the Death Eaters who’d jumped down from the top floor were dead. The only one left standing was a woman, not wearing the typical Death Eater uniform. Wild, unkempt hair framed a face that might have been beautiful once, but was twisted into a rictus of rage. She looked batshit crazy, and Chuuya felt a smile tugging at his mouth. “Are you going to be a challenge?” he yelled, flaring his ability. 

The woman let out a long cackle, and, without a word, began shooting off spells. She was quicker than the others, Chuuya supposed, but each spell was still far slower than a bullet and that was what he was used to blocking. He dodged out of the way of each spell and blocked the ones he didn’t, and soon, a veritable cloud of splintered rock spun around him. 

He dashed forward, craters forming in the earth, and swiped at her with a roundhouse kick. To his surprise, the woman actually dodged it, springing away with a snarl and shooting off another spell. He ducked under the green curse and lunged again, clipping her in the side of the head. 

“Not bad,” he said, smirking. 

“Chuuya!” Dazai said from behind him, and on instinct, Chuuya disengaged. He backed away with a single kick off of the ground to land behind Dazai, waiting. 

“I’ll kill you,” the woman said, her voice low and raspy, and brandished her wand in front of her. 

“Really?” Dazai said, his eyes comically wide. Without another word, she shot off another green spell, the exact same shade as the kid’s eyes. Instead of dodging, like Chuuya’d expected, Dazai stood in front and let it hit him in the chest. 

He slumped to the ground, eyes fluttering shut, and Chuuya felt a sick feeling rise in his gut.  _ No fucking way.  _

The Killing Curse had been green, he realized. The kid had mentioned it once or twice as the spell that only he had ever survived, because all it did was kill on contact. Was it like Lovecraft, in that No Longer Human didn’t work on it? He didn’t even hear the crazy bitch’s laughter, his heart thudding in his ears. Dazai was still, unmoving. He looked like a fucking corpse. 

He didn’t notice how fucking close he was to letting Corruption rise in his veins until his skin began to burn. 

The ground began to shake as where he stood slowly became a crater, pebbles and debris rising into the air around him. He was going to kill her. He was going to strip the flesh from her fucking bones and listen to her scream as gravity crushed her into the ground. 

And then Dazai popped up from the ground, rubbing absently at his chest. “Surprise,” he said cheekily, and Chuuya punted him across the field. 

Straight into the woman, in fact, who was so shocked that she stumbled backward at the impact. Dazai sighed and raised his arm, shooting her twice in the jaw. She toppled backward, dead before she hit the ground. 

Chuuya’s own jaw clicked shut, tense with barely restrained fury. He pushed past Dazai and vaulted up, onto the lip of the wall where the roof had been. The attic was still empty, but there were still the muted sounds of spellfire. Gritting his teeth, he increased his own downward gravity and jumped onto the floor. The boards gave out and he crashed through onto the next level.

He straightened from his crouch. It was one of those obviously wealthy rooms, with expensive tile flooring and knickknacks that screamed the owners were well off. Whoever this place belonged to, they hadn’t ever known the meaning of “tasteful”. As far as he could tell, no one was on this floor either. Most of the noise came from the fight below. 

Because he was lazy and eager to punch someone’s teeth in after that stunt shitty Dazai had pulled, he busted through the floor again to see a bunch of individual duels occurring. Each of the eight Order members sent in as the attacking force were fighting one on one with another Death Eater. His appearance caused the nearest pair—the crazy man with the weird eye and peg leg was fighting a robed and masked opponent—to skitter away. Someone shot off a spell at him that he easily ducked, allowing it to hit whoever had been trying to assault him from behind. 

Without thinking much of it, he whipped around and slammed them into a wall with a kick. They slumped to the ground. Fucking fragile wizards. Couldn’t even put up a good fight. 

With an exasperated growl, Chuuya rocketed into another of the Death Eaters. They were fighting Neko-sensei and she’d looked kinda tired, so he’d decided to take them off her hands. His flying kick punted them into another wall and he pinned them there with his ability as he stalked up. 

“Fucking  _ boring _ ,” he hissed. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out his knife and efficiently slit the Death Eater’s throat. Blood splashed onto his face, but he didn’t pay it any attention.

A roar of rage sounded from behind him, and he ducked just in time for one of those acid green curses to hit the wall and blacken the wallpaper. Whoever that asshole was, they’d nearly singed his  _ hat.  _ He was going to kill them slowly, let the gravity crush their bones into powder. He whirled to face a very, very strange looking man. He was pale, bald, and had snakelike nostrils that didn’t actually look like a nose. The headmaster was battering at his shields with all manner of strange elemental spells, but the damn thing held up pretty well under the onslaught. 

That was probably Lord Voldemort, Chuuya realized, and the snake coiling at his feet was the final target before he was to lure him out. God, that thing was fucking massive. 

A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth as he pulled bullets out in front of him again, arrayed in a semicircle, and sent them flying toward the dueling men. Several were aimed for the Voldemort guy and were blocked by a hasty shield, but he’d never been the actual target. Four bullets ducked under the shield, their speed enhanced by For the Tainted Sorrow, and impaled the snake in multiple places. The flesh around the wounds began to sizzle, filling the already hazy air with the scent of burning snake.

Bullets dipped in basilisk venom were useful, he supposed, but  _ messy.  _

Lord Voldemort shouted in anger and tried to curse him again, but he dodged easily as Dumbledore once again forced him to contend with him as his opponent. The headmaster, face grim and determined, nodded to him once. 

Chuuya adjusted his hat, took a deep breath, and punched through the wall. 

The fighting spilled out onto the grounds with all the Order members retreating into the open, spellfire still clouding the air with multiple colors. As soon as Voldemort set foot outside of the manor, eerie red eyes fixed firmly on the old man in front of him, a single shot split the night. 

[A month of planning (the Order), sabotage (Dazai and Chuuya), and binge-drinking tea (the increasingly stressed professors) had flown by. The ministry is in chaos and is effectively hobbled to the point where it couldn’t interfere with the coming conflict if it tried, thanks to Chuuya’s weekly trips to harass them. Umbridge is sacked after the discovery of a blood quill, a highly illegal magical artifact, is discovered in the wreckage of her office. Voldemort is growing angrier as his raids on the Order are thwarted. The proposed day of the conflict has come, and the morning dawns bright and clear.]

Albus stood in front of his tower window, staring out onto the Hogwarts grounds. Severus sat in the chair in front of him with a peculiar expression on his face. The Dark Lord had gotten antsy of late, and he was still suffering the after-effects of the Cruciatus. His limbs gave a twinge of pain every time he shifted his position and his wand arm had unfortunate tremors. Nevertheless, he was used to it. 

“Does he know of the ability-users, Severus?” Albus asked, and there was no doubt as to who “he” was. Severus grimaced. “You know he does,” he replied. “As soon as they appeared to the students, there was no way to prevent their existence being leaked to him.”

Albus’s shoulders visibly slumped. “I had thought so.”

“He doesn’t think very much of them,” Severus said. “Little better than muggles, I think, was what I heard him say to Lucius. He doesn’t consider them a threat.”

Albus let out a hollow laugh. His hands flexed on the windowsill, knobby fingers looking more fragile than they usually did. 

“Do you intend for them to kill him?” Severus asked abruptly. “Because the prophecy…”

At that, Albus turned away from the rising sun to look his once-student in the eye. His eyes weren’t twinkling, and his expression was unusually grave. His half-moon spectacles caught the golden light in a flash. “They cannot,” he said. “But once Voldemort is mortal, he will be killed.”

“By Potter?” Severus asked, raising his eyebrows and trying to ignore the tremor that ran through his arm. Unconsciously, his fingers began to tap restlessly on the armrest of the chair. The boy was talented enough, he supposed. But he had seen the Dark Lord when he dueled to kill. The only person with enough magical prowess to match him step for step was Albus Dumbledore, who admitted himself that the prophecy meant he couldn’t kill the man. If he was even a man at this point, really.

“Harry is more resourceful than you know,” Albus said softly, a spark coming into his faded blue eyes. He made a beckoning motion, gesturing for Severus to join him at the window. The potions master stood slowly, making sure his legs were not about to collapse underneath him, before walking over. He peered into the grounds. “Is that Nakahara?” he asked, incredulous. 

“Indeed,” said Albus, a quiet smile spreading across his face. “Young Harry has been steadily improving with a gun.”

“ _ Muggle  _ weaponry?” 

Albus nodded, gaze fixed on the two small forms of Potter and Nakahara on the grounds. From what Severus could make out, Potter held a rifle in his arms. Nakahara was pointing out into the forest. He walked over to Potter and ruffled his hair, a familiar gesture that took Severus aback. 

“He’s going to snipe the Dark Lord,” Severus breathed. 

“I always was a fan of irony,” Albus said, adjusting his glasses and turning to the potions master. “And poetic justice.”

Severus couldn’t help but laugh. Perhaps it was a tad hysterical, considering how each gasping breath made his ribs protest and send twinges of pain down his muscles. But the idea of Lord-bloody-Voldemort being shot in the head by a muggle weapon was too amusing to contemplate seriously. 

He leaned against the wall, needing the solidness to keep him standing. “Are there any changes to the plan?” he asked. 

Albus deliberated for a moment, back to staring out of the window. “No,” he said. “Except, I don’t want you on the front lines.”

Severus bristled immediately. “I am one of your more capable duelists,” he shot back, straightening even though it pained him. And he  _ was,  _ even if he’d been tortured the previous night. He was as capable as the rest of the Order, if not more because he knew the fighting styles and tendencies of the other Death Eaters. He’d spent enough time with all of them to know what spells and stances they preferred, their weaknesses, their most-used strategies. He was invaluable on the field and both of them knew it. This was a fight they couldn’t lose.

Albus turned his head to look him in the eye, and the conviction there knocked all the fight out of him. “I have a more important job for you,” he said. 

“More important than covering your back?” Severus muttered. 

Albus smiled at him, openly and without hesitation. “I need you to be Harry’s eyes,” he said, and Severus immediately balked. “I thought—” he sputtered, before taking a calming breath. “The Tonks girl,” he said instead of protesting, and Albus’s smile turned into a grimace. “Remus made a compelling case to have her reassigned to a different area,” he admitted. 

Severus closed his eyes, praying for patience. “You want me,” he said flatly, “to collaborate with Potter.”

“Point out opportune targets, really,” said Albus. “And watch his back. He is the only one who can kill Voldemort, and Tom knows this. Someone will be sent to dispatch him as quickly as possible. He will be kept high up and out of the way, but in the worst-case scenario that he is found, the attackers will need to be dealt with. You are the only one I can trust with this job, now that Nymphadora is on sabotage and mitigation.”

Severus fell back into his chair, his legs unable to hold him any longer, and he scrubbed a hand across his face. “You want me to be his rearguard,” he said. 

“Yes,” said the headmaster, and Severus found himself doing whatever he did when Albus Dumbledore asked something of him. 

He agreed.

[Harry, in his tree with Severus at the bottom to watch his back, can feel his heart beating in his throat. The advance guard has just appeared, with Chuuya attacking soon after.]

Harry’s hands were slick on the cool metal of the sniper rifle. He wasn’t entirely sure where Chuuya-sensei had found it, but he’d pressed the thing into his hands with a wicked smile the day after they’d returned to Hogwarts. “You’re doing pretty well with a pistol,” he’d said, “And I wanna see what you can do with this.”

It had taken him a little while longer to figure out how to effectively use it. It was far bigger and heavier than a wand or a pistol, and the recoil had jarred him badly the first time he’d shot it. But eventually, he’d been able to shoot almost as accurately. Chuuya-sensei had him practicing every day that he didn’t have Quidditch practice until his hands were steady and his shots flew true. 

Now, laying on a branch under an invisibility cloak, he couldn’t stop the nerves that made his fingers shake slightly. This was it. This was the end, and it had come so much faster than he’d ever thought it would. Facing Voldemort was an eventuality he had known existed but barely confronted. 

_ Wait until he’s out in the open. Then shoot. No sooner than that,  _ he said to himself, gritting his teeth and taking deep, steadying breaths. He could do this. It was just like flying a broom or casting the disarming spell. He could do this. 

Of course, that was when it went all to shit.

Snape, down below, was tackled from behind. The disillusionment was disrupted and Harry watched in horror as Draco  _ bloody  _ Malfoy pinned the man and stunned him in a single spell. The prat started to drag him away, too, muttering something under his breath. He did  _ not  _ have the time to deal with this, not at all. 

Harry blew out a breath, slowly, before reaching into his bag. He had a pistol in there, again, curtesy of Chuuya Nakahara, purveyor of incredibly illegal items. He pulled it out and took aim. 

He could shoot him nonlethally, Harry knew, but even then there was a high chance he’d bleed out. And his wand was on his other side, pinned between his hip and the branch. But he didn’t want to kill Malfoy. 

The ferret was still dragging Snape away, and was almost into the open before Harry made a split second decision. Leaving his wand and the sniper rifle in the tree, he rolled off the branch and landed in a jarring crouch. “Drop him, Malfoy,” he said tiredly, and Malfoy whipped around. His pale face twisted into a sneer. “Potter,” he spat, pointing his wand. 

“You gonna hex me?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. His pistol was raised, aiming straight for Malfoy’s forehead. 

“The hell is that?” he asked instead of answering the question, and Harry smiled slightly. “It’s a gun, Malfoy. Never heard of it?”

He scoffed. “You’re pointing a  _ muggle  _ weapon at me, Potter? How barbaric. I could kill you where you stand.”

But his wand arm was shaking, while Harry’s were straight and poised. 

“First of all, you prick, you’re not going to kill me,” Harry said, taking a step closer. “Your master’s got a claim on my head and even you aren’t outrageously stupid enough to defy him.”

Malfoy paled, and Harry knew he’d been right on the money. The boy opened his mouth again. “I can still stun you,” he said, baring his teeth. “And you can’t do a thing to stop me.”

“I can dodge,” Harry said dryly, “and by then I would have shot you straight through the forehead before you had time to put up a shield.”

He took another step closer. Malfoy was tense, and the tremor in his wand arm had gotten worse. But he didn’t step back, and part of Harry was grudgingly admiring the balls that took. Or maybe the foolhardiness. He’d never seen a gun in action, after all. 

“Put the wand down, Malfoy, and nobody has to get hurt.”

That had, apparently, been the wrong thing to say. A muscle in Malfoy’s jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth, glaring at Harry through a fringe of white-blonde hair. “I’m a dead man anyway,” he said bitterly, and shot off a stunner. But before it could hit him, Harry was dodging to the left and forward. Malfoy probably had expected him to jump back, put some distance. Any wizard worth his salt on the dueling circuits knew that distance was their friend in fights. 

But Harry wasn’t using his wand, and Chuuya-sensei had shown him a little more than how to shoot a pistol. 

Malfoy was in the middle of taking a surprised step back when Harry brought his leg up, as if to kick him. Instinctively, he tried to get out of the way, losing his balance and over-correcting. In the time it took him to get back on his feet and shoot off another spell, Harry was in his guard and swinging the pistol against his head.

The pistol-whip sent Malfoy to the ground, out cold. With relieved exhale, Harry retrieved his wand from the tree and used an incarcerous to tie him against the trunk, taking Malfoy’s own want with him. He woke Snape up, too, who was annoyed that he’d been taken out by a school child but nevertheless went back to his post. 

Harry climbed back into the tree, reapplied the sticking charms, and settled in to wait. In the time it had taken to deal with Malfoy, the entire  _ roof  _ had been ripped off of the building. Jeez, Chuuya-sensei was kinda terrifying. 

A few minutes later, a hole was punched through the wall of the ground floor. With a startled gasp, Harry put his eye to the scope. Voldemort was  _ right there,  _ out in the open.

_ Wait until he’s out in the open. Then shoot. No sooner than that. _

Inhale, exhale. 

Squint through the scope, find Voldemort’s skull. 

Inhale, exhale. 

He pulled the trigger. His first shot went wide, missing the man by a centimeter, but the second shot went clean through his skull. From what he could see through the scope, it had exploded into blood, shards of bone, and brain matter. All of the Death Eaters stopped moving, and the Order members took advantage of their distraction to disarm and tie them up. 

Mechanically, Harry withdrew from the sniper rifle. He packed up his kit with all the efficiency he’d practiced for weeks. He folded up his invisibility cloak, neatly, and put it into his back. After making sure he had his wand, he jumped down from the tree, and quietly threw up in the bushes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed the final showdown :p  
> I felt that part of Yosano-sensei's iconic poem is somewhat ironic to include as the quote for this chapter. But it's also pretty good foreshadowing for the tone of the sequel...anyway, would y'all be interested in crackish oneshots set in this same universe? imheretoruineverything suggested one where Atsushi and Remus meet. If you are interested, please! Comment suggestions!!


	12. Goodbyes

#  **Chapter Twelve: Goodbyes**

“The head may err, but never the blood.”

“Light, Wind, and Dreams” by Atsushi Nakajima

[Two days after what the Prophet is calling “The Malfoy Massacre” in all its sensationalized glory, Chuuya and Dazai leave England for Japan. But before that, there’s one last Order meeting on the grounds of Hogwarts. Everyone is slightly in shock that none of them died and that Voldemort is well and truly gone, shot dead with a sniper bullet for all to see. Several things happen at once, because goodbyes are messy, finicky creatures.]

“Yo, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya said, walking over. A good night of rest had recharged him enough for what he was sure was going to be a long, tedious day of farewells and payment and boring conversations. With not nearly enough alcohol, since the meeting was held on school grounds. Dazai was standing a few hundred meters away from a tall willow tree, looking at it with a quizzical expression. Mini-him was talking to him in hushed tones, for some reason. 

Dazai turned. “Oh, hi, chibikko!” he said, entirely too cheerful. His bad hand was encased in a cast with a sling, and Chuuya was immediately wary. Mini-him turned too, waving. “Hi, Mr. Nakahara,” he said, smiling hesitantly. “I was just telling Mr. Dazai about the Whomping Willow.”

“The what?”

Mini-him gestured at the willow tree. “It’s sentient,” he said. “Get too close, and it attacks you.”

Chuuya raised his eyebrows, giving the tree a once-over. “Are you sure?” he deadpanned, and mini-him nodded. “I drove a car into it in my second year,” he admitted. “It was...an experience.”

Chuuya plopped onto the ground next to him and tugged the kid down. “This, I gotta hear,” he said, flashing mini-him a grin. He was having flashbacks to blowing up his _very_ expensive pink motorcycle and getting chewed out by ane-san, even though he’d paid for it in its entirety and promptly bought a new one. He’d broken it in style, damn it! And he didn’t really spend money on anything else. Its replacement was sitting in his parking spot at his apartment, probably gathering dust. 

Mini-him regaled him with a tale of house-elves—so _that_ was what Harry’s strange bedsheet-creature had been—missing the train, and the thievery of his dad’s flying car. “We got yelled at,” he said cheerfully, “but I get a fun story to tell my grandkids, or whatever, so I figure it was worth it.”

Chuuya found himself laughing, despite himself. But then the bastard was stepping forward, peering at the tree. 

“Oh, no,” he muttered, making absolutely no move to stop him because Dazai would do stupid things and it would be entirely his own fault. Maybe the tree would finally manage to kill him. 

A few more steps closer, with mini-him watching intently, and the tree seemed to shiver. One of its branches whipped out, impacting Dazai and throwing him to the side none too gently. 

He stayed where he was as mini-him rushed over. “Are you okay?” he asked, frantic. “I’ll go get Madam Pomfrey, oh, bloody hell, your arm?!” 

Mini-him glanced to the side, seeing the ripped-off cast, and seemed to pale impossibly further. The bastard let out a groan and propped himself up, then clutched dramatically at his shoulder. “I don’t feel so good,” he muttered, and Chuuya scoffed because he’d seen this stupid gag before. 

Mini-him hadn’t, and was promptly having a freak out session with Dazai moaning dramatically. Until, of course, he popped his arm out of his sleeve with a vapid smile. “Boo,” he said, his stupid eyes going starry. 

Mini-him whipped out of his wand and tried to hex him, but the spell was just absorbed by Dazai’s ability. Dazai’s smile grew wider. “I’m immune from attacks from redheads,” he claimed, closing his eyes and swooning. Chuuya sprang up from the ground, ready to bask his head in with his foot, but he rolled to the side easily. With a smirk, he aborted the movement, instead driving his elbow into Dazai’s side. The man let out an actual pained groan.

“Immune, huh?” said Chuuya, exchanging a grin with mini-him. 

Later, Chuuya found Harry leaning against the castle wall. The kid was brooding, as usual, staring out onto the vast expanse of the Forbidden Forest with a faraway look in his bright green eyes. Chuuya walked up next to him, having shamelessly abandoned Dazai to an uncomfortable conversation with a man named Shacklebolt. He ruffled his hair. “Hey, kid.”

“Sensei,” Harry said, jolting in surprise. 

“That was a nice shot,” he said, tilting his head to look at Harry. His cheeks flushed and he looked away, running a hand through his hair. 

“I missed the first one,” he muttered, and Chuuya shrugged. “It was your first big job. Don’t worry about it, because the second one was perfect.”

Harry, still looking away, was smiling.

Chuuya knew he was about to burst the kid’s bubble, but he also knew it wouldn’t be for very long. “So, because the client’s been breathing over my shoulder with it and I gotta be responsible, I gotta take the guns with me. But,” he said, forestalling Harry’s protests, “look out for a package from me in the mail, yeah?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at him, and that _better_ be something he’d learned from Dazai because Chuuya was a responsible, non-sarcastic person. 

Well. 

Usually. 

[Harry does, in fact, receive a package from someone named “Asagiri” when he arrives at Privet Drive. Vernon gives him the side eye when it arrives, because since when has his nephew known someone from Japan? But he gives up the box anyway. Harry opens it in the privacy of his sparse room. Inside is the pistol he’d been using for weeks, with a box of handgun ammo and a note written in messy Japanese. He’d needed to borrow a Japanese-English dictionary from the library, since he still couldn’t do magic over the summer. It reads, “I’m not actually that responsible.” There is a phone number underneath, with a warning not to use it too often. Harry does not stop grinning that day.]

While Chuuya was off talking to his student, Dazai promptly cornered Minerva McGonagall to ask her a question. She looked down her nose at him even though he was taller, somehow. It was a trait that only the President really managed to do, and for that, he had a tiny smidgeon of respect for this woman. She did, however, look distinctly harried. Dazai was pretty sure his question was going to make her day worse. 

But, being Dazai, this was a good thing. 

“Hey, Neko-sensei!” he said, smiling at her. She gave him a look reminiscent of an annoyed Kunikida, and that thought on its own made him smile wider. He leaned closer to her, affecting a thoughtful expression. “Are you related to someone named Natsume Soseki?” he asked. 

She backed up a step, turning her nose up. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she said, and _that_ was a fun answer. Dazai tilted his head. “Are you?” he pressed, and she gritted her teeth. So easily annoyed, by a question no less. She must be just as high-strung as Kunikida. 

“If you _must_ know, he’s my cousin on my mother’s side,” she said finally, before pushing past him at a fast trot. 

Dazai filed that information for later, possibly to bring up next time Haruno’s cat wandered out and inevitably found him on his off-days. He wasn’t entirely sure how sensei always managed to locate him, no matter where in Yokohama he was, but the company was always surprisingly welcome.

Regardless, he had one more person to talk to. 

He wandered through Hogwarts, taking his time to smile amicably at every portrait he walked past and watch them cringe away from him. Chuuya probably wouldn’t approve, but if the chibi really wanted to stop him, he shouldn’t have left him without supervision to go gallivanting around with the stray he’d adopted. 

Eventually, he found the headmaster of Hogwarts, staring out a window broodily. He looked rather like the President in that moment, if Dazai could replace his bright crimson robes with a green yukata. The man turned to him, returning his polite smile with one of his own. He wasn’t showing any visible signs of fatigue. Except, however, his blackened hand, which was hidden in one of his sleeves. 

“Headmaster,” said Dazai, and the man greeted him in kind.

Dazai was making his offer for two reasons. Firstly, to see what the man would do, because he was _curious._ Secondly, because he would be disappointed in himself if he didn’t. 

“There’s a woman in Yokohama,” he said finally, watching Albus Dumbledore. “She has the ability to heal any wound, any ailment, with the one condition that the patient be on the verge of death.”

Dumbledore regarded him with solemn blue eyes, bright behind his crescent-shaped glasses. “Do you believe I’m on the verge of death, Mr. Dazai?” he asked. 

Dazai shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “But if whatever happened to your hand was controlled, you wouldn’t have several pain potions in your office.” He’d been in the hospital wing enough times to read all the labels on the bottles, and pain potions had a very distinct presentation. He’d seen several in the headmaster’s office, tucked away on top of books or on the window sill. There had been far too many for them to just _be_ there.

Dumbledore’s mouth quirked up into a wry grin. “I suppose not,” he said, breaking Dazai’s gaze to look out the window at the grounds. It was another clear day, so uncharacteristic of the Scottish highlands. He let out a sigh. “I don’t think I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. Dazai, though I thank you.”

Dazai nodded. He’d figured as such. Albus Dumbledore had been alive for a very long time, and he didn’t strike him as the kind of man who clung onto life with a desperate, needy fervor, unlike many of the other people he’d met. Nor did he crave the finality of death, either. Not like he did. No, this was a man who preferred to slip into the darkness with a few parting words and a smile, without fighting the current or jumping in entirely. 

It was, he supposed, nice to know that he’d taken his measure correctly. Then again, he was rarely wrong. 

He was turning away to leave, find the chibi and finally get on the train, when Dumbledore opened his mouth to say something. “You wouldn’t know who was behind the Minister’s sudden sacking, Dolores Umbridge’s imprisonment, or the recent break-ins at the ministry, would you?”

Dazai chuckled, and he locked eyes with Dumbledore for one last time. Whatever he saw there made the headmaster stiffen warily. All Dazai did was smile, close-lipped. “Of course I wouldn’t, Headmaster.”

With that parting line, he put his hands in his pockets and walked away, humming the tune to his favorite song. _“Shinjuu wa hitori de wa dekinai, futari nara dekiru, shinjuu, shinjuu, shinjuu….”_

[Albus is left staring after the strange man, murmuring a song about suicide, when a ward alert pings in the back of his mind. With another tired sigh, he decides against calling Fawkes. Instead, he takes a walk to the edge of the wardline, refusing to hurry his pace. Is it petty? Perhaps. But then again, Agatha never does call before meeting him.]

He arrived at the boundary of the wards, feeling at least somewhat more balanced than right after his conversation with Dazai. The man had unsettled him, put him off enough that the walk had been necessary to recenter himself. 

Agatha Christie, in all her delicately homicidal glory, was twirling her pipe and watching the clouds above. As Albus came into view, she slowly lowered her head until she was facing him. Her red-painted lips stretched into a devious grin. “Albus!” she said, too cheerful. 

She twirled her pipe around gloved fingers before raising an eyebrow at him. “You just scraped it, didn’t you,” she said. 

“Absolutely,” Albus agreed, his hand on his wand.

Agatha rolled her eyes at him. “Anyway, I’m just here to let you know. If your pet ability-users leave Britain without causing any trouble, you’re off the hook. Otherwise, I’ll be very displeased.”

“Their contract doesn’t end until they’re off Britain's shores,” Albus said tiredly. 

“Brilliant.”

Albus frowned at her. Something wasn’t adding up. “You’re hardly one to play messenger,” he pointed out, adjusting his glasses slightly to see her better. 

“I’m not,” Agatha agreed, “but I’m also not one to let my subordinates handle important jobs.” She spun her pipe again, almost lazily. The light reflected off the polished wood, the gleam of the sunlight obscuring her hand for a split second. 

He whipped his wand out, ready to cast a shield, but there was nothing. Agatha only laughed, the bell-like sound cutting through the crisp morning air. “So trigger-happy, headmaster,” she said, and did another pipe-spin. “I’m not here to _kill_ you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Though it wouldn’t be that hard. In the ten minutes it took you to walk over here, I could have set up a competent ambush. Really, Dumbledore, are you getting soft in your dotage?”

Albus didn’t reply, his wand still up and ready. 

Agatha tilted her head, the lazy motion of a predator considering her prey. “Outright murder is so passé,” she said dismissively. 

“Get to the point, Agatha,” Albus said, gritting his teeth. The pain in his other hand was getting worse, and it was difficult just to keep it from trembling. 

Agatha smiled at him. It was a perfectly polite smile, made all the more menacing because she wasn’t baring her teeth. “I’d just like to point out that I have a very capable gifted healer in my ranks. We’d be willing to fix your, er, little problem.”

“For a price,” said Albus. 

“For a price,” she agreed, her red lips the color of spilled blood. 

“I’ll have to decline your offer,” Albus said, putting his wand down and tucking it back into his sleeve. He turned, entirely done with this conversation, entirely done with this woman, and entirely done with people trying to manipulate him. 

“As expected,” he heard her sigh. “Farewell then, headmaster. May we not cross paths again.” The last sound he heard of her was the sharp pop of her disapparition, and with that, he let his shoulders slump. If all went as planned, they would not cross paths again, he knew. Unless she appeared at his funeral to gloat. But by then, he supposed, he would be long past caring. It was with a lighter heart that he walked back to Hogwarts. The sun on his skin felt warm, like a blanket.

For the first time in decades, Albus Dumbledore was content. 

[Hermione Granger has already said her goodbyes to Osamu Dazai and Chuuya Nakahara. She sits in the library, at the table Dazai had made a habit of napping at, and flips through her notes. There is a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t gone away after the successful raid on Malfoy manor, and there is a darkness to her eyes that wasn’t there before. Regardless, she is still the same Hermione that said farewell to Harry a few days prior and begged him to stay safe. Though for how much longer, she can’t be sure.]

Her notes, as per usual, were incredibly long and detailed. Each part of their conversation had been recorded in precise handwriting, the black ink standing out from the pale brown parchment. She’d spent hours revisiting that conversation, and every subsequent interaction, in order to compile a dossier of knowns and unknowns. 

What did she know about Dazai?

Not much at all. 

He was ruthless, intelligent, and he’d done terrible things. His ability was named _Ningen Shikkaku,_ roughly translating to No Longer Human, and it was always on. With a single touch of his bare skin, he could nullify the effects of abilities and magic alike. Potions didn’t work on him. Charms didn’t work on him. Transfigurations unraveled themselves at his feet and wards broke as soon as they passed over him. 

In a world entirely dependent upon magic, Osamu Dazai was _dangerous._ Worse, he hid it under a convincing facade of idiocy and charm.

What did she know about Nakahara?

Even less. 

He was loud and angry, and he couldn’t stand Dazai. She didn’t know the name of his ability past the fact that it could manipulate gravity to a terrifying degree, changing the laws of physics that magic so scorned to do incredible things. On a battlefield, he was unstoppable. She’d heard of the Malfoy Massacre from Harry to know this. 

He also, for reasons unknown to her, never took off his gloves. 

Hermione needed more information, and she did have the time to get it, if not the means. One year left of school. One year left of bowing her head and raising her hand and getting the best marks possible until they let her leave here, released her into a world that had no idea what was coming. Then she had another year, a grace period that Dazai had suggested she take, to set all her ideas in motion. If she didn’t manage to crash and burn spectacularly, perhaps her plans were feasible.

He’d made a promise to her. Perhaps Dazai wouldn’t actually begin to fulfill it until she graduated, but a promise was a promise. And according to Harry, who’d heard it from Nakahara, Dazai didn’t make a habit of lying at the negotiating table. 

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and rested her head against the table. She pinched her eyes shut, welcoming the cool, unbiased blackness, for a second far too long to be a blink. Merlin. She was in over her head. 

Then Hermione opened her eyes again and went back through her notes. She had to know these things and had to do more research for the things she didn’t know. If she was to fulfill her end of the bargain, being unprepared wasn’t something she could afford. 

Harry and Ron were going to be so angry with her, she thought distantly, before gritting her teeth. She’d convince them. She _had_ to, because Hermione was sure she couldn’t do this without them. 

With a ragged script and tense fingers, she wrote a phrase at the bottom of her notes and underlined it twice. Those words would define her for the next few years, at the _least_. Perhaps for her entire life. 

But Hermione Granger had made her choice, weeks ago in that same, sunlit room, and she would not take it back. 

[Dazai and Chuuya leave the castle quietly, without much fanfare. Though they take the same train to the airport, they have tickets for different airlines.]

“I’ll see you around, slug,” Dazai said cheerfully, and Chuuya bit back a growl. 

“It’s fucking inevitable, isn’t it?” he said. 

Dazai only grinned at him.

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “See you, bastard,” he muttered, and slunk off, tugging his luggage behind him. What an asshole. He was looking forward to being back in his apartment with a glass of wine and putting wizards out of his mind altogether. And not seeing Dazai for at _least_ three months. 

Maybe even four. 

He very pointedly doesn’t look back at the dickhead, and he very pointedly does not let out a sigh as soon as he knows Dazai can’t hear him. Of course not. That would be ridiculous. 

[There is an office somewhere in Yokohama. It is dimly lit and there are many people in suits walking around and working. The location is discreet and well-guarded, though to anyone passing by on the street, it’s just another office building. There is nothing special about the building. If asked, the employees would say there is nothing special about the people inside. One bright, clear morning, three years after Dazai and Chuuya leave Britain, a woman in formal wear speaks to Ango Sakaguchi.]

“They’ve done _what?”_

The woman said something else, gesturing with her hands, and Ango looked longingly at his desk. On it sat a mug of coffee, brewed for so long it resembled more sludge than liquid. 

“Excuse me, I need to make a call,” he said finally, waving the woman away and collapsing into his chair with a sigh. He pushed up his glasses and picked up his mug. He drains it in a single motion before picking up the phone. He dialed a number, presses the call button, and holds it up to his ear. 

“I need to speak to Osamu Dazai.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, and kudos-ing. I never would have finished TIC if not for Midnight, my BSD crack dealer, and y'all, for motivating me to keep writing. 
> 
> There will also be a one-shot collection set in the Never the Blood-verse, probably drawing off of your requests. Not sure what to title that yet. 
> 
> Oh, and there will be a sequel to this series, tentatively titled "Organized Crime for Dummies". It will follow the Golden Trio a few years after they graduate Hogwarts, which has rather a lot to do with poor, suffering Ango's meeting in that last bit. Let's just say Hermione's reasons for asking Dazai about organized crime weren't entirely academic. Mafia boss Hermione, anyone? 
> 
> I have no idea when it'll be up, because I'm going to force myself to take at least a week off. But! Thank you all again for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, bookmarking, all of that. It's been awesome! Hope to see y'all whenever I get around to publishing the sequel!


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